


Across, Over, and Yonder

by kimpernickel



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: AU, F/M, Profanity, Slow Burn, Stardust AU, minor mentions of underage drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-03-22 15:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 110,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3734191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimpernickel/pseuds/kimpernickel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was an unwritten rule, almost. No one crosses the Garden Wall. That is, until recently. In a sudden act of confidence (and foolishness), young Wirt (accompanied by his younger brother, Greg) decides to climb over the mysterious Garden Wall in order to retrieve something special for Sara, the girl he loves. But what he finds, and experiences, is more than extraordinary. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those familiar with Neil Gaiman's novel "Stardust" and its film adaptation, this AU is inspired by the general plot of that. It is more attuned to the adventures and plot of OTGW, however, which is why you will see more similarities with the show, as if the string of events had a different twist to them.

It was an unwritten rule, almost. Understood by all, for sure. For decades, possibly even a century or two, it was the guideline that was passed down within each family.

No one crosses the Garden Wall.

To be frank, no one knows _why_ they should not cross it. There are too many rumors, too many silly tales that contradict each other for any actual history of the Garden Wall and its mysterious other side. What everyone _does_ know is that it had been a part of the town ever since its founding back in the early nineteenth century. In the town’s historical archives, little is mentioned concerning the Garden Wall. The town’s city limits only reach the Garden Wall; everything else on the opposite side is either “no man’s land” or immediately becomes the city limits for the neighboring town. Again, no one is certain.

But everyone knows that it is best to keep away from the wall. The only thing that borders the wall is the Eternal Garden Cemetery. The logic was that the dead could not climb over the wall, and those who visited the cemetery were not there to see the other side.

Most of the time.

In many ways, as time passed, the Garden Wall became invisible to the town’s inhabitants. Even if they walked alongside it, no one had the intention of climbing its height of fifteen feet _(not usually_ ). The municipal government made sure to attend to it in case of erosion or other damages, and occasionally people whispered about it, but otherwise, it was just a wall. Not _the_ wall.

In fact, the most people ever “interacted” with the wall was if they were visiting the Eternal Garden Cemetery. Considering how both were in the far outskirts, it only made sense. Visit someone’s tombstone—you would inevitably glance at the wall. If you heeded your parents’ advice, you would not climb the wall. You would not even acknowledge its existence. It was just another wall.

But, of course, there were those who were mystified by the wall, and did decide to cross it. The most well-known story that had been circulating amongst the townsfolk was that of a young man who worked at a general store and climbed the wall, never to return. He had no parents, no siblings, no distant relatives, not even a beau, so it was not as if anyone ever missed him. But he went to the top of the wall and jumped off on the other side. A few witnessed the account, and they wondered if he would ever return. He never did, although at one point, many years after his disappearance, he sent a letter to his former employer. The only words written were, “Everything is not what it seems, friend.”

From the rumors, there had been five who went beyond the stone boundary; this number included the young man, presumably the first. Four men, one woman.  It was more common for people, particularly children, to begin the trek up the wall, only to stop out of cowardice and go back down. One young woman in the 1960s ascended only to sit at the top. She said there had been nothing but trees, but she was unwilling to descend to the other side and explore. She never provided an explanation why.

The Garden Wall was supposedly under police surveillance, but no one could be so certain. And even if so, it was largely a waste of time. No one had climbed the wall in decades, and it was simply accepted that no one did climb anymore. Even the least superstitious townsfolk chose not to brave the odds and venture to the other side. Was there a reason to? The Garden Wall was largely a local legend, and (nearly) everyone dismissed the delusions surrounding its murky history and rumors. 

 And so, as the townsfolk went about their lives, they remained uncertain and ignorant of what exactly occurred on that side of the wall.

That is, until recently.


	2. Another Day

The air was abnormally chilly for mid to late October. Dry and crisp, the wind caused even more frigidness that managed to pass through Wirt’s thin, wiry frame. “You’re going to be tall, I can tell,” his mother would tell him whenever he complained about his size. “Then everything will be proportional, and you won’t think you look so frail.” Wirt knew his mother was probably right; his father was a staggering six feet and four inches, and just in the past six months, Wirt had skyrocketed from a measly five-one to five-five. At fifteen years old, Wirt knew he had more growth spurts to look forward to by the time puberty finished with him.

But on days like today, Wirt cursed his size and frame. No matter how many layers he placed upon himself, and even on an autumn day like today, he simply could not shake off the uncomfortable cold that settled within him. He crossed his arms over his chest in hopes that it would bring warmth to him. The attempt was probably futile, but he continued to keep his arms in front of him, almost as if they were a crutch when going against the wind.

“Wirt!” came the chipper, relentless voice of his younger half-brother, Gregory. Wirt pressed on, ignoring the calls from Greg. Within seconds, however, the seven-year-old boy reached his older brother, slightly panting from running to catch up. “Wirt, Mom said you forgot your scarf!” Greg exclaimed, holding up a long train of deep burgundy yarn. Trailing alongside Greg was one end of the scarf, skidding across the sidewalk and picking up already-fallen leaves.

Without a beat, Wirt snatched the scarf and tossed it around his neck in a circle, no “thank you” for Greg. He would not admit it, and definitely not to Greg, but the scarf helped ease the prickly cold. None of this would matter to Greg, though; within seconds, he was already humming an original melody of his, bobbing his head happily in-tune.

In their daily walks to their respective schools, Wirt would have asked (demanded) Greg to stop humming and remain quiet. But today, Wirt let it slide. The humming, though repetitive and annoying, was miles better than the wind in Wirt’s ears. Wirt turned at the corner onto the street that Greg’s elementary school was situated. “Ok, here you go,” Wirt mumbled once they reached the sidewalk running parallel to the school.

“Thanks Wirt! See you later!” Greg beamed as he skipped across the street. Once he reached the opposite side, he turned around to give Wirt a wave. Wirt apathetically nodded to indicate that he received the gesture. He stayed briefly to watch Greg continue towards the entrance, and then headed down the same street for an extra ten minutes before reaching his high school. It perplexed Wirt as to why the elementary and high school both started at the same time, while the middle school opened an hour later, but it was a convenient walk from his and Greg’s home. And Greg was always well-awake before Wirt’s alarm clock even went off, but the boy was smart enough to stay out of his brother’s room.

Thursday morning. Not yet Friday, but late enough in the week so that the exhaustion of Mondays and Tuesdays were over. Today was not meant to be a special day in Wirt’s high school career. No tests, no projects or essays due, absolutely nothing. He would go to his classes, eat his ham and cheese sandwich along with a pack of potato chips and an apple during his lunch period, return to one more class, then head back home. No after school clubs, no after school friend hang outs. He would not have to pick up Greg, who was let out earlier and often went home by means of another student’s parents and was babysat by the next-door neighbor. He would simply walk home, enjoy the hour or two of peace he would have until his mother or step-father would walk in the door with a hyperactive Gregory rushing up to tell Wirt about his day. In those two hours, Wirt would do his homework. If he finished early, then it meant getting to read for pleasure, or even practice his clarinet. Once the entire household was back inside, dinner would be prepared; Wirt would do his chores (and try to get Greg to help him, though it was essentially a lost cause). They would eat, Wirt would retreat back to his room, and go to sleep no later than ten o’clock.

No, today was not meant to be a special day for Wirt. If anything, it had all the omens of a _bad_ day: gray, dreary sky with no sliver of sunshine, frigid wind brushing past him, the possibility of rain later in the afternoon (and he forgot to bring his umbrella, _just great_ ). It did not help that in his first class of the day, Physics, he had forgotten to finish its homework and it just so happened to be the one day that Mr. Ashby would actually _grade_ it. His second class, European History, was better—and more interesting, except today Mrs. Clements was sick, and the substitute teacher had popped in a dry documentary about the French Revolution. The third class was Wirt’s personal favorite—English. He would never admit it to anyone, but he liked the poetry units the best. He kept to himself in class, only answering questions when he was called upon, but he loved the poetry units.

He also liked English because it was the only class he shared with _her_ —Sara, the girl whom he had known since elementary school and had romantic feelings for since he was thirteen. She sat two rows ahead and one column to his left, but Wirt could easily stare at the back of her head for extend periods of time until he was brought back to reality with Ms. Lovell’s enthusiasm for literature.

Today, as Wirt sat in his seat while other students filed into theirs before the class would officially begin, he folded his arms atop the desk and kept his eyes fixated on the edge in front of him. He let his mind go numb, completely without a single thought rolling through.

“Hey, Wirt,” a soft feminine voice called. It startled Wirt, causing him to slightly jump—and blood to rush to his face when he saw that it was Sara standing next to his desk.

“Oh, um, h-hi, Sara,” he replied. “W-what’s up?”

“Well, I was wondering if you’d want to join a few of us after school to go to the new coffee shop on Pillar Street? I hear it’s really good, and it’s Thursday. You know, it’s basically a second Friday.”

Wirt could feel his heart plummeting into his stomach. He did not like coffee, but that did not matter. Sara was _asking him out_! Well, to join her and a few of her friends. And it was probably out of pity. Sara was incredibly friendly, but there was no way that she was not inviting him without some inkling of _he doesn’t have many friends_. And it probably meant that Jason Funderburker would be there ( _Ugh, Jason Funderburker_ , Wirt mentally muttered). But still, this was _Sara_ , and she was inviting him to hang out with her friends, most of whom were nice enough anyways. 

“U-uh, y-yeah, that’d be great,” Wirt stuttered. The bell rang just as he spoke, possibly drowning out his nervous voice. But Sara smiled and replied with an “Okay!” before scurrying to her seat when Ms. Lovell entered the room and immediately started discussing the current book they were reading, James Joyce’s _Ulysses._

So, maybe it was a good day after all.

* * *

Wirt did not have the same lunch period as Sara, but he usually used the time to do homework as he ate. He attempted his Physics problems, but his anticipation for the day’s later events kept him from focusing properly. The rest of the day passed by surprisingly quickly, leaving Wirt wondering just exactly what he had done in his remaining classes until he met Sara and her group of friends at the juniors’ parking lot. Wirt stifled a scoff when he saw Jason Funderburker in the group of five, but he ignored it when Sara caught is site. “Hey Wirt!” she said in a chorus of a few others. He held up a hand as a means of a weak wave.

The journey to the coffee shop was a complete blur for Wirt as well; Sara had sat next to him in the back of Jenny the Junior’s car, and she made small talk with him (“How was your day?” “How is your brother?”), but Wirt was too awestruck to remember if he actually answered her questions. Before he realized, everyone was exiting the car and entering the coffee shop. Wirt scrambled out of the car and briefly sprinted to catch up with the rest. It meant being the back of the line with Jason Funderbenker.

Wirt ordered himself a small hot chocolate and took the only available seat the table—in between Peter, one of the fraternal twins, and Jason Funderburker ( _ugghhh_ , Wirt continued to groan inside). He listened to them talk about their lives as he sipped his hot chocolate, pretending to be completely interested. Sara’s friends were nice (except for Jason Funderburker, who was just pompous), and Wirt liked them enough, but he was never exactly _friends_ with any of them. Sara was probably his only _friend_ in the entire group.

“Ugh, yeah, it’s just so _boring_!” someone exclaimed; at this point, Wirt had not been paying attention.

“What do you think, Wirt?” asked Sara. Wirt snapped his attention up from his hot chocolate.

“About…?” he sheepishly asked.

“ _Ulysses_.”

 _Oh_. “I don’t know, I kind of like it.”

“Really?” asked Peter. “It’s _sooo boring_.”

Wirt shrugged. “It’s not entertaining and not my favorite, but I think it’s okay. I kind of wish we do more of—” he immediately stopped and sipped his hot chocolate.

“Do more what?” Sara asked.

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Wirt denied once he swallowed his hot chocolate. He was not about to admit in front of Sara and her friends, and definitely not _Jason Funderburker_ , that he wanted to study more poetry.

Everyone continued on to other topics, forgetting Wirt’s comments. Wirt finished his hot chocolate before everyone else finished their drinks, and he was tempted to buy more so that he could keep himself occupied while he sat with the group. But his lack of cash prevented him from doing so, and so he kept his hands in his lap and actually looked at whoever was speaking. He liked watching Sara speak. She was just _so pretty_ , with her dark curly hair and her lovely dark skin. For such a dreary, cloudy day, she quite literally was a ray of sunshine with her bright daffodil-yellow sweater. And her voice was placid and buttery ( _Still, to hear her tender-taken breath/And so live ever—or else swoon to death_ ). She naturally smiled as she spoke.

Once again, Wirt lost track of what was happening until he consciously took a look at his wristwatch. _Three-seventeen._

“What time is it?” Sara asked. Wirt repeated the time to her.

“Oh, I better head out now,” she said as she stood up. “I promised I would do some babysitting for the Hennesseys at four.”

“The Hennesseys?” Wirt’s stomach twisted. “They live on my street. I can go with you, if you don’t know the way.”

Sara gave him a grin of gratitude. “That’d be great, thanks Wirt!” She tossed away her coffee cup and said farewell to her friends. Wirt followed suit, glad to shake off Jason Funderburker. Just him and Sara, walking together with no one else getting in the way.

When the afternoon wind hit him in the face, however, so did the realization. _Just him and Sara, walking together with no one else getting in the way_. The last time something like this happened was in once in gym class freshman year, when Sara’s friend was absent and so she chose to walk with Wirt around the track during the free time they had.

“Take the lead, Cap’n!” Sara joked, saluting Wirt. He chuckled to himself, but the nervousness prevented him from making a witty remark.

“T-there’s a shortcut I sometimes take when I go on walks,” Wirt mumbled as he began walking. Sara stood next to him, her arm occasionally brushing past his.

“As long as it gets me to the Hennesseys by four.” 

As Wirt led Sara along his shortcut, he found talking to her to be less challenging than he anticipated. She told him about how she was already starting to look into colleges, and how much she wanted to go to an out-of-state university. Wirt had not even thought of applying to college yet—that still seemed like a distant future, and he was not even sure he wanted to do an extra four years of school. But he listened to Sara’s ideas and commented once in a while.

“And I know that it’s more expensive to do an out-of-state public school, but—oh, look, it’s the Garden Wall!”

Wirt looked up to see where Sara was pointing. Standing in its glory was the stone wall, painted white with red at the top. He rarely took this shortcut, but he never once took a second thought to the Garden Wall ahead of them.

“Are you _sure_ this is a shortcut? I mean, this is the Garden Wall after all, and that’s kind of out of the way.”

Wirt knew she was only joking, but he did not want her to get in trouble if she were late for babysitting. “I promise we’ll get to my street in about ten more minutes.”

“So, have you ever tried?”

"Tried what?”

“To climb the wall, silly,” Sara clarified.

Wirt shook his head. “ _Nooo_. I don’t even climb trees.” The last time he climbed a tree, he sprained his left arm. That was the end of his tree-climbing career.

“I have.”

Wirt raised an eyebrow. “ _You_ tried to climb the wall?”

“Sometime in the seventh grade. Jenny dared me to cross it and then immediately come back, but I barely made it to the top. Just a quick peek over the wall. It really is just a bunch of trees on the other side.”

“Oh,” was all Wirt could really say. He was one of the many who never once bothered to even come close to the wall—less out of fear and suspicion, more out of sheer apathy. Also, it was a pretty high wall.

“I’ve always kind of wanted to do it again, though. Actually cross it and then come back, just to say I’ve _done_ it, you know?” Sara continued. “But I don’t know, I’m still kind of chicken to do it. And no one else I know has done it. Not even Jenny, who made that stupid dare. But I’m still really curious. It’s just that no one is really ‘brave’ enough to do it. You’d think that in today’s day and age we wouldn’t be so superstitious about old tales that have probably been exaggerated over time, but for some reason we’re all still kind of afraid of the wall.”

Wirt was not sure what to say after that, but it would not matter. They reached the Hennesseys, and they bode farewell before Wirt headed back to his house. His step-father and Greg were there.

“Wirt!” Greg hollered as he ran to his brother as soon as Wirt opened the door. “Guess what I did today?” He did not wait for a response. “I learned about _clouds_ , Wirt! _Clouds_!”

“That’s great, Greg,” Wirt strode past Greg and headed straight for his room. “Hi, John,” he mumbled to his step-father in the dining room. He tossed is backpack onto his desk chair and crashed onto his bed, his coat and scarf still on.

Maybe in half an hour or so, his mother would return. She and John would tag-team to make a generic dinner of meatloaf, broccoli, and mashed potatoes. Then they would watch the evening news together, or one of them would help Greg with his homework. Wirt would be expected to unpack and repack the dishwasher, take out the trash, and then ask if anything else needed to get done before he could go back to his room and do homework.

But for the time being, all he could think about was Sara—particularly, the walk back with Sara. A warmth spread throughout his body.

Today, despite its omens, was actually an amazing day.

And, little, did he suspect, it was hardly the beginning.

* * *

Far from Wirt and his family, far from the town, far from the Garden Wall, with the sun disappearing beneath the horizon, the nighttime slowly blanketied the landscape and trees. Alone, perched upon a single tree branch high above the ground, a bluebird sang its melancholy, nearly inaudible tune. Hours after the sun departed the sky, it stopped its melody and became a part of the night.

Even farther from the music, a shadow strode between the trees, basking in the settled, icy air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry credit: "Bright Star" by John Keats


	3. A Decision

A week had passed since that Thursday afternoon with Sara. Wirt tried his best to talk more with her whenever he could – in between classes, just before and after English class, and if he ever saw her when the school day ended. It was more difficult than the thought because their schedules did not coincide very well, but he managed to make it work on a few days. When they did speak, it was usually a short talk, no longer than six minutes. _Progress, Wirt, progress_ , he repeated to himself every time he did a chance to talk to her.

It was at some point earlier in the week when Wirt had decided that he needed to do something _big_ for Sara, something that could _prove_ just how much he liked her. But it was hard to judge what exactly he could do. Sara was not a materialistic person, and it was not as if he had the money to buy her anything special. He thought of writing her a poem, but he was not comfortable with sharing that part of his life with anyone quite yet. Reciting a poem? Maybe. Not his words, just his voice. It sounded less intimidating than his original work.

He could make her mixtape—possibly. Something she could listen to when he was not in her presence. It would be less scary—possibly. And maybe he could record himself playing the clarinet. If he had no other ideas, he would probably do that. Sara would like it—possibly.

The day before Halloween fell on a Friday, and from Wirt gathered from his accidental eavesdropping, it was going to be a major deal for his fellow high schoolers. Wirt’s high school was not only having a big football game, but after-parties and Halloween parties would pop up throughout the town. Would that be good day to give Sara his gift? She was the school mascot, so she would be at the game, but maybe after, before she went to a party? Sara would definitely be invited to one of them. Wirt knew just how awful he was when it came to wooing a girl, mostly because had never done it before. When was the right time to do so? _How_? But he did not want to ask for his mother’s advice, and definitely not his step-father’s. That Wednesday, Wirt gave himself an ultimatum: make the mixtape for Sara and give it to her that Friday, or just forget about his feelings towards her. He was not a particularly decisive person, but he _had_ to do this. Rumor had it that Jason Funderburker was going to ask out Sara, and Wirt had to get to Sara before that jerk. 

Wirt spent his entire Wednesday afternoon making the mixtape for Sara, alternating between reciting poems and playing his clarinet. When he finished, he labeled it “For Sara.” _Friday after the game_ , he thought. He stuffed the mixtape in back of his desk drawer: temporarily, out of sight, out of mind. Hopefully Greg would not come barging into his room and rummage through his things. Hopefully his mother would not go snooping and come across it (not that she was a snooper, but Wirt had to be careful). And his step-father was smart enough to never come into Wirt’s room, _ever_.

It was at dinner that same evening when his mother broke the news.

“We’ll be going out of town for a week or so,” she said. “Your grandmother isn’t doing very well right now, and Uncle Robert would like me to help out with taking care of her in the meantime until things get better.”

“Hooray! To grandma’s!” Greg cheered, either ignoring or unaware of what their mother had just told them.

“Wait, _all of us_?” Wirt asked. “We _all_ have to go?”

“No, no,” his mother continued. “I don’t want the two of you to miss a week of school, so you’ll be staying home. We’re not getting a babysitter, though. You’re old enough to take care of yourself and Greg for just a week. We’ll be leaving Friday afternoon as soon as we both get off work, and we’ll probably only get back the next Saturday morning or so.”

Wirt grunted. He would have to take care of _Greg_ for an entire week. And they were leaving Friday afternoon—he would be babysitting Greg when he was supposed to give Sara her mixtape. Greg would embarrass him in front of her, maybe even all of her friends. He put up a face to appear as though he was okay with this arrangement, and kept quiet throughout the dinner. Why did they have to leave Greg with him? He was only in the second grade; it was not as if he would miss a ton of work that would need to be made up.

_It’s just a setback,_ Wirt tried to reassure himself while he was in his bed. He already had the mixtape made and labeled. He _had_ to give it to Sara, regardless of Greg's presence mucking everything up. 

* * *

 That Friday, after saying goodbye to his mother and John, Wirt returned to his room. Greg followed him. “It’s Halloween, Wirt!”

“The day _before_ Halloween,” Wirt corrected.

“Who cares? It’s Halloween!” Greg continued. “What are we going to do today, huh? I was thinking of going around the town to get candy—”

“No one is passing candy out tonight,” Wirt muttered. “And _I’m_ going to the game at my school—”

“A game? Oh that’s fun! Can I come?”

Wirt sighed. He could not exactly say no, although he was hoping to drop Greg off at his next door neighbor’s house for an hour or two. “Okay, fine,” he responded.

“Yay!” Greg hailed, then brought his hands to his face. “Oh my gosh! I don’t even have a costume! Off to make a costume!” he ran out of Wirt’s room. Wirt gave another sigh, this time of relief. Just a few more hours until the game, and then he could see Sara.

Greg returned roughly half an hour later, a tea-kettle upside down on his head. “What’s with the hat?” Wirt asked.

“I’m an elephant!” Greg praised himself, pointing to the kettle’s spout. “Neigh!”

“Elephants don’t _neigh_ ,” Wirt stated.

“What’s your costume?”

“It’s not Halloween.”

“Yes it is! You need a costume. Don’t worry! I know what you can wear!” Greg left the room once more. Wirt wondered what exactly a seven year old would conjure up for him to wear as a costume. Within another ten minutes or so, Greg entered the room with a tall, pointy red hat and an old, navy-blue cape. Wirt could only assume the cape was a part of John’s Union soldier uniform that he wore on his occasional reenacting trips.

“Here you go!” Greg tossed the cape on the bed and placed the hat on Wirt’s head, askew.

“What am I supposed to be?”

“A wizard, duh,” Greg made a face.

Wirt felt stupid as he draped the cape over his shoulders and fastened the buttons in the front, but he knew it was pointless to not wear it. Otherwise, Greg would be badgering him for the rest of the night, and that was one of the many Greg-isms that Wirt did not need to deal with at the moment. Greg stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Tada! Wizard Wirt! Wizirt!”

Wirt rolled his eyes. 

* * *

At the game, Wirt paid for the tickets for himself and Greg. They took a spot as close to the exit as possible, far from the band. The crowd littered the bleachers, everyone dressed in some kind of costume. Maybe Greg’s last-minute costume was not such a bad idea after all; the few people who dressed in everyday clothing stuck out easily, and Wirt did _not_ like to be noticed in such a way.

“This isn’t a game!” Greg commented. “Where are the boards? And the pieces?”

Wirt did not even bother responding.

He could see the mascot, Sara, dancing and waving as she walked along the parallel of the football field. He considered waving to her, but realized that his gesture would have gotten lost in the sea of costumed spectators. He patted the mixtape in the pocket of his trousers, ensuring its safe keeping. Once more, his stomach twisted, a lump in his throat developing.

_Oh no._ This was a terrible idea, right from the beginning. A terrible, stupid idea. He was not a good at playing the clarinet; it was why he kept to himself and never took up John’s suggestions to join the marching band. And reciting poetry was just as pathetic and writing his own. Wirt mentally kicked himself, upset that he thought he could win Sara over when all she would do was just laugh at him as soon as she heard the mixtape. He should have begged his mother to take him out of town, even if it was to take care of his grandmother. That way, he would not have to face Sara and her friends for a whole week, and when he came back, he would be too busy completing the missed homework for him to ever see her. Instead, he was now on the bleachers with his annoying half-brother. Maybe he could just avoid Sara for the rest of night and not give her the mixtape. Then he could properly dispose of it—trash it, rip out the tape, burn it, so many different options. She would never have to know about it.

Wirt also realized why he never came to the football games—the crowds made him claustrophobic, and the noise caused his ears to ring for hours afterwards. At least he and Greg were sitting in an area with fewer people; most of the spectators were congregated around the half-way marker.

“Hi Wirt!”

The mascot was standing in front of him. So much for blending in.

“Hi!” Greg replied for him. “You can talk? Oh that’s so cool!”

Sara laughed, then took her uniform’s head off and tucked it underneath her arm. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” she said to Wirt.

He was unsure of how to respond to that. "Are you allowed to be up here?" he sputtered.

"Oh, yeah, it's part of the job," Sara answered. "Interact with the spectators once in a while, get them pumped." There it was; her natural smile. "Are you going to Hannah Colton’s party afterwards?”

“Umm, uh—”

“A party? Oh boy! Wirt we should go!” Greg took over for him.

Wirt wanted to smack Greg quiet, but restrained himself. Sara was in front of him, he had to be on his best behavior.

“Uh, y-yeah, yeah I’m going,” he murmured with a lack of confidence. Sara did not seem to notice.

“Okay, well I’ll see you there!” She popped her mascot head back on hers and waved goodbye. “Bye Greg!”

Greg furiously shook his hand back and forth. “We’re going to a party!” he then clapped. Wirt’s shoulders shrunk as far as they could. He wanted to disappear under the bleachers, but it was probably for the best that he did not.

* * *

Hannah Colton’s house was a twenty-minute walk in the opposite direction of Wirt and Greg’s house. Wirt was not sure how attending a party would be, considering two factors: one, he had never been to one, and although he had heard stories of what happened at these kinds of parties, he was still uncertain of what actually went on. Two, he had his seven-year-old half-brother to look after, and that was already a recipe for disaster.

He did not have to go to Hannah Colton’s party. He could back out, and take Greg straight home and call it a night. But Sara’s words hung around him: _I’ll see you there!_ She was expecting him. That was a good sign, right? Maybe he could give her the mixtape after all.

Party music blasted from the house—quiet enough so that passersby could barely hear from the sidewalk, but loud enough to fill the crowded atmosphere and drown out conversations. As soon as Wirt stepped in (after taking a hold of Greg’s hand; he was not going to let Greg wander around a house with alcohol being consumed by high school students), he saw a few people he recognized. “Oh hey, Wirt’s here!” called out Kevin, a boy with whom Wirt shared Geometry. “How’s it goin’?”

“Uh, good, I guess,” Wirt replied. “I-is, is Sara around?”

“Sara?” asked Kevin. “Maybe? I don’t know what she’s dressed as. What’re you anyways?”

“He’s a wizard! He’s Wizirt!” Greg chimed in.

Kevin studied Wirt from the tip of the hat to his shoes. “Really? You look more like a garden gnome.”

“Heh, yeah,” Wirt politely answered. “Well, I guess I’ll see you later then.”

“Yeah see ya around,” Kevin hollered over his shoulder as he turned around to talk to some other students walking in the door.

Wirt walked through the throng of people, making his way into the living room. Someone he had never seen before, most likely a senior, handed him a red plastic cup without a second thought, almost automatically. Wirt took it, at first dazed as to what he would do with it. Greg remained at his side, taking in the sights. “Wow! This party is _insane_!” he hollered, but Wirt could only guess that was what Greg actually said.

“Hey Wirt!” called a familiar voice. It was not Sara; it was Jenny the Junior.

“Oh, hey Jenny,” he greeted. “Is Sara here?”

“Not yet, she’s on her way, though. Why?”

“I just wanted to say hi.”

Jenny did not question any further until she caught sight of Greg. “Why’d you bring your brother to a house party?”

“My parents are out of town, and I couldn’t find another babysitter last minute,” Wirt semi-lied. “He won’t cause trouble—not much, at least.”

“No, it’s cute! What are the two of you dressed as?”

“I’m an elephant!” Greg responded immediately, pointing to the spout once more. Jenny laughed. “And Wirt is a wizard!”

Jenny stared at the cone above Wirt’s head. “Oh, I thought you were a gnome.”

Wirt gave a look of defeat, but Jenny did not pick up on it. “Hey, there’s some drinks in the kitchen. And some stuff for your brother.”

“Thanks,” Wirt said, but he doubted that Jenny the Junior heard him when she strode past him. He pushed his way into the kitchen, Greg trailing along behind him, where there were fewer people standing about. He recognized none of them, but none of them paid attention to him or Greg. He stared at the bottles of alcohol littered about the countertops; strewn about were other nonalcoholic drinks like soda. He found an extra, clean cup and poured some of the soda into it for Greg to keep him occupied and quiet. Then he continued to stare at the alcohol in front of him, confused.

“Can’t decide what to get?” came Sara’s voice. Startled, Wirt jumped back. Every time.

“Y-yeah,” Wirt said, feigning certainty. “Not sure what I’m in the mood for.”

“I think I know of something you’d like,” Sara answered, taking his empty cup and pouring cranberry juice in it. She added a shot of vodka into the juice and lightly twirled the cup. “Here you go. These are my favorite.”

Wirt took a sip of the concoction. He was unsure if he could taste the alcohol or not, but he had to admit that he enjoyed the taste. It was refreshing—not at all what he was expecting. He shoved away the reality that he was drinking alcohol, for the first time, at fifteen, and that Greg was in his presence. Hopefully Greg would not blab about this to their mother and his father—maybe Wirt could promise to go frog-searching if it meant Greg would keep quiet. At least Greg did not tell stories to get others in trouble. He was not a tattletaler. His talkativeness was driven by sheer enthusiasm.

“It’s pretty good,” he told Sara, the corners of his lips turning slightly upwards. She smiled at him. The hair on the back of Wirt’s next stood up.

“Is it cool if I hang in here with you? I’m kind of beat right now, and I need a break before I play some party games.” She was beginning to make herself a cranberry-vodka drink.

“Yeah, sure,” Wirt said without thinking. He could not believe it. He was drinking alcohol with _Sara_ , and they were alone (Greg did not count at this moment; he was somehow still occupied with his soda).

And so they talked—nothing deep, nothing that would embarrass Wirt, but a talk that made Wirt’s insides gooey and fluttery. He could not remember the last time he was this mushy. Not even walking back to his street with her a week ago compared to what he felt right now.

“Can I have more soda?” Greg asked. Wirt instantaneously refilled Greg’s cup, and Greg went about drinking it. Maybe it was not such a good idea to give his hyperactive brother two full cups of sugary soda this late at night, but he was willing to deal with the repercussions if it meant talking to Sara _alone_ , _at a party_.

“Hey, you know how we saw the Garden Wall when we were walking together last week?” Sara inquired.

Wirt nodded, wondering where she was going with this.

“Well, I tried to climb it again.” Wirt’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I know! I went to the cemetery last Saturday night with a few people, you know, just to hang out and stuff, and I tried to climb again.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, nothing really. I made it to the top and I sat on the edge, but I couldn’t see anything because it was so dark. A part of me wanted to go down to the other side, you know, to finish that dare from seventh grade or whatever, but everyone was begging for me to come down and I was pretty cold.”

Maybe it was the alcohol in his system, or maybe it was his total admiration for her, but Wirt was in absolute awe with her story. One afternoon earlier in the week, when he went grocery shopping with his mother, he saw the Garden Wall in the corner of his eye. It reminded him of Sara, and how much she was intrigued with it—even if he was not. To hear that she had climbed to the top _twice_ was a feat. He did not know anyone else who had tried to climb it, let alone get to the top.

“I still want to know why everyone warns us about it,” Sara continued, snapping Wirt out of his trance. “I’m pretty sure it’s just some old wives’ tale to prevent kids from wandering off and getting lost and kidnapped or whatever, but I want to _know_ what’s out there. Just see what’s on the other side. Maybe get something from the other side, just to say, ‘Hey world! I’ve crossed the Garden Wall and all I got was this stupid tee shirt.’”

“I get that,” Wirt replied, sipping the last of his drink.

A friend of Sara’s whom Wirt did not know tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to play one of the various party games going on. “Do you wanna come, Wirt?” Sara asked before heading out of the kitchen.

Wirt glanced at Greg, still holding Wirt’s hand, an empty soda cup in his other. “I better take my brother home,” he said. “But it was n-nice s-seeing you.” 

“Okay, well I guess I’ll see you Monday.”

* * *

Walking home with a soda-amped Greg felt longer than it actually was. For remaining surprisingly quiet at the party, Greg was now busting at the seams, running in front of Wirt and humming the same tune of the past few weeks continuously. Usually, Wirt would have asked him to be quiet, but the sensation he was currently feeling let the humming ball of energy slide. Another chance to talk to Sara, _alone_! In her monster clown makeup, she was still undeniably pretty.

Once they returned home, Wirt realized that tomorrow was Halloween, and he would be expected to take Greg trick-or-treating. For now, none of that mattered, though. Just getting to speak to Sara was enough to mollify the tedious task of following Greg around as he received candy.

After the exhausting method of getting Greg to finally go to bed, Wirt plummeted onto his own bed, returning to his conversation with Sara ( _My heart/is humming a tune/I haven’t heard in years!)._ We went over every detail he could possibly remember, every little piece of information that transpired between them in chronological order. He smiled goofily to the ceiling. Maybe he should have given her his mixtape. Sara was too nice of a person to laugh at him for making it. Maybe next time he would give it to her.

Or maybe it was not enough? What could he do that was meaningful yet simple? Was there anything in their conversation that he could use to create such a gesture? He ran through the conversation one more time.

_“But I want to know what’s out there. Just see what’s on the other side. Maybe get something from the other side.”_

Wirt shot up from his bed. That was it. He knew what to do that would win Sara over. He would bring her something  _wonderful_.

He was going to cross the Garden Wall.

* * *

In a small shack, a man sat alone, staring outside his window pane into the darkness, the soft shadow of tree canopies lining the starry sky. Many of the leaves were gone, but several remained at the top. A light breeze would occasionally drift by, letting some of those leaves leisurely tumble to the ground.

The shack was warmed with a fire, but the warmth quickly dissipated and was replaced with a sharp chill. The man pressed his lips together, hoping that it was not what he thought it was.

“You do not seem pleased, my friend,” said the voice, deep and bellowing, as if it could read his thoughts.

“I have always been indifferent to your presence,” the man responded coolly, his eyes still upon the darkened scene of the window before him.

“Yes, well, I am not here for the reasons you think,” the voice continued. “I have come to say that I think it will happen soon.”

The man jerked his head. “ _It_? You mean—”

“Yes, my friend. Oh, it has been too long since the last occurrence. But I can sense that we should be getting ready for it. It's coming soon, my friend, sooner than either of us think.”

“How will you know?”

“I always know,” the voice snapped, then drifted out of the shack without even a goodbye, the lingering chill remaining for hours after its departure.

* * *

Tonight, there was no bluebird's song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for all this exposition, but I think it is necessary for developing this AU and the direction it will go in. I promise that the plot really begins with the following chapter. 
> 
> Poetry credit: "Flirtation" by Rita Dove


	4. Beyond

Trick-or-treating for Greg began at five o’clock p.m., when the sun was still out and barely setting. “C’mon Wirt!” the boy bounced as soon as the clocks in the house struck five. He wore the exact same outfit as the day before, with the upside down teapot placed upon his head.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Wirt grumbled, taking his set of keys off the key hooks in the kitchen.

“Where’s your costume?” Greg asked. “It’s _Halloween_! You _have_ to wear your costume! Wizwirt the Wizard!”

Defeated, Wirt went into his room to put on the cape and hat that Greg now designated as his costume. He returned to the front entrance of the house. Greg clapped his hands and smiled. “Yay! Now we can really go trick-or-treating!”

Wirt locked the door behind them, with Greg darting far ahead of him before Wirt could even step off the doormat. “Don’t wander too far!” Wirt hollered to his younger half-brother, but it was likely that Greg did not hear him. He was too busy developing his own path and stopping at any houses he deemed appropriate enough to retrieve candy. Somehow, it still surprised Wirt that Greg was unpredictable and could not follow a simple pattern. He tagged along behind his brother, hands shoved in his trousers’ pockets. He twiddled his fingers around a long string of red yarn that was in his right pocket for some indiscernible reason (probably a recent class project, but Wirt could not recall what project that would have been).

It was rather warm for Halloween, especially in comparison to the icy rain from the previous week. The woolen blue cape, large and billowing around Wirt’s shoulders and small frame was an excellent heat insulator. With the sun still suspended in the sky, he could feel sweat developing underneath his arms, but he was more preoccupied with why Greg was stuffing the candy he received in his shorts.

“Why didn’t you bring a pillow sack, or a plastic bag?”

“Because then I’d have to hold it, _duh_ ,” Greg retorted matter-of-factly. “Candy in the pants means a hands-free Greg!”

Wirt was also partly fascinated that the candy was not escaping Greg’s pants, but he then realized that the bottom of the shorts’ legs cuffed to Greg’s knees. The candy was trapped.

At a certain point during the walk through town, Wirt must not have paid attention to exactly _where_ Greg was roaming about. It was not until the elder brother saw the Garden Wall several yards ahead of him when he registered that he and Greg were rather far from their house. The sun was now beginning to dip beneath the horizon, but enough light was emanating from it that it did not feel _too_ late. Wirt checked his wrist only to find that he had forgotten to put on his wristwatch. Probably six-thirty p.m.? It could have been no later than seven in the evening.

“Greg, maybe we oughta head more towards our house? We’re kind of far and it’ll take some time to get back.”

“Psh no way, this is where the best candy is!” Greg shouted over his shoulder. How Greg could possibly know that, Wirt had no idea; when Wirt was young enough to go trick-or-treating with Greg, their mother kept him within the boundaries of their neighborhood.

Wirt sighed, knowing that getting Greg to start heading home was an impossible task. Maybe Greg would realize himself that there were fewer houses in the periphery of the town; few people liked living near the mysterious Garden Wall.

 _The Garden Wall_. Of course—he made that decision last night. Cross the Garden Wall and bring back something for Sara. The more he analyzed it, the more it sounded silly. What could he possibly bring back for Sara to _prove_ that he had seen the other side of the wall? A wildflower? A rock? And that was assuming that there would anything _on_ the other side worth taking. He could just give Sara the mixtape he made for her. No need to climb a dumb wall that no one really knew about.

Greg stopped at one of the houses on the corner of the street that he and Wirt had been walking on, receiving two or three lollipops that he promptly deposited into his shorts. “Thank you!” he gleefully accepted. Wirt waited at the fence of the house for Greg to return back to the street. As soon as Greg exited the fenced-in front yard of the house, he made a right turn. Wirt reluctantly yet dutifully followed suit. They were now walking parallel to the Garden Wall.

“I need to stop and count all my candy,” Greg said after five minutes since the turn. “Hey Wirt, is there a place we can stop so I can see how much candy I have?”

“Can’t you just do that back at the house?”

“I need to know how much more candy I can get!” Greg defended, turning his back on Wirt as a sign that he would not listen to any more of Wirt’s less-than-subtle suggestions to go back home. “Hey, I think I see a park!”

Before Wirt could even respond, Greg was running down the street. “That’s not a park!” Wirt screamed as high as his lungs would let him. He chased after Greg, crossing the street and pass the wrought iron gated entryway to the grassy patch that Greg had pointed out—but it definitely was not a park. Orderly rows and columns of tombstones scattered the area, with an occasional taller monument sticking out. It was the Eternal Garden Cemetery.

Nightfall was encroaching, the remnants of sunlight just enough to illuminate the scene. Wirt scanned the cemetery for Greg. He found the seven-year-old boy propped against the trunk of the tall, wide tree adjacent to the Garden Wall. He was busily sorting out candy as he pulled individual pieces out of his pants. He was just in the beginning stages; the sorted piles on the grass before him were little.

“Greg, we should _really_ go home now,” Wirt pressed when he reached his brother. “It’s going to get dark pretty soon and we’re in the outskirts of town.”

The boy did not reply; instead, he continued with taking inventory of his candy stock. Wirt furrowed his brow, but kept silent. His eyes traveled from Greg to the tree trunk, his gaze going upwards with the tree. It was several feet taller than the Garden Wall. He was not much of a tree climber, but maybe he could climb it just to _see_ the other side of the wall—after all, Greg was going to take a while with his crucial task of counting candy. Then he could _tell_ Sara that he had been to the top of the wall, and they could talk even more. Yeah, that was okay.

It took Wirt several minutes to make his way up the tree, with several scratches and slips. He stopped just at the point where the top of the wall and the tree met. He placed one foot on the top’s base, then the other.  A surge of victory spread throughout his body ( _Success is counted sweetest/By those who ne'er succeed/To comprehend a nectar_ _/Requires sorest need_ ), the kind that made adrenaline pump throughout his veins and forget about Greg at the base of the tree.

Wirt gazed upon the secretive space beyond the wall. Even in the fading sunlight, he could see trees—miles and acres of trees. He positioned himself carefully so he was no longer standing, but sitting, legs dangling over the edge of the wall. He could stare at the trees all day; somehow, Wirt was utterly fixated on the forest just yards away from him. He was vaguely aware of Greg climbing the tree and taking a seat next to him. “Woah,” came Greg’s youthful wonder.

For once, Greg’s words resonated with Wirt.

It was a beckoning—it had to be. Without even thinking, Wirt was descending down the wall, which was far less taken care of on this side in comparison to the smooth cemetery side (if Sara and the others did not climb the tree adjacent to the wall, then Wirt had difficulty understanding how they could have gotten to the top). The grass at the foot of the wall was thick, long, and matted from the growth and lack of care.

“Are we going on an adventure?” Greg questioned as he himself scrambled to the bottom. Wirt did not answer, but it was quite possible. Maybe he could find something for Sara after all. He and Greg cut through the empty meadow between the trees and the Garden Wall.  He was too entranced with the forest ahead, calling to him ( _We are the Trees/Our dark leafy glade/Bands the bright earth with softer mysteries_ ). The daintiest of breezes beckoned him closer to the woods. _Don’t be afraid_ , it soothed. 

The sun was gone, but that went unnoticed.

* * *

Until it did.

Wirt lost track of the time he and Greg had been wandering in the forest, and he had no wristwatch to look at for reference.

 _Oh crap_ , he thought, and instantly all his worries returned, busting at the seams of his mind. It was nighttime, it was Halloween, and he and Greg were _on the other side of the Garden Wall_. The fun and games were over.They had to turn back _now_ and climb over the wall once more, back into the Eternal Garden Cemetery, and trek back to the house. They had to. He grasped Greg’s hand and made a one-eighty turn.

“Hey!” Greg exclaimed.

“We have to _go back_ ,” Wirt declared adamantly, marching back in the direction that they had come from. Or at least, he _thought_ that they had come from. 

But that proved to be quite the challenge. Approximately twenty minutes later, Wirt was certain that all he and Greg managed to do was wander even further into the thicket of trees that had hypnotized him earlier. All the trees were undistinguishable from each other, and he was not able to remember of any potential landmarks that the two of them might have passed.

 _Ugh_ , if only Greg had not stopped in the cemetery to count his candy. If only Greg had not decided to go trick-or-treating in the town periphery.

“I was leaving a candy trail, but I don’t think it’s helping,” Greg piped up. “I remember dropping my only pack of gummy bears and I think I saw them just now—”

Wirt opened his mouth to let out a _Shut up, Greg!_

Instead, a faint feminine voice from somewhere nearby spoke out instead. “Help!” it murmured.

“What?” muttered Wirt. “Who’s there?”

“Help!” the voice repeated, this time louder—but not by much. “Over here!”

“It’s coming from this way!” Greg cried, pointing to the left of Wirt and darting in that direction. Wirt followed him. 

“Please help me,” continued the voice, slightly strained, but it did sound as if the two boys were closer. “I’m right here,” it mumbled, but Wirt could not see to whom it belonged.

In the corner of his eye, Wirt could see Greg plunging his hands into one of the nearby bushes. “Greg, don’t do—”

“Ah, you found me!” said the voice. “My wings are stuck on these thorns.”

Wirt could barely make out Greg fumbling his arms around in the bush; Wirt was too busy trying to process that sentence. “Wings?” he uttered mostly to himself, confused.

Greg pulled back from the bush, his hands cupped in front of him. “Wirt, look!” Greg turned around to show his older brother what he was holding. Sitting prettily in the palms of his hands was a bird—a bluebird, from what Wirt could gather from the dim, white moonlight.

“Oh thank you,” the bluebird chirped. “I’ve been stuck for too long, trying to wriggle out of that bush, but I think I’ve hurt one of my wings in the process.” The bird attempted to lift its right wing, but was unable to spread it fully. “Oof, yeah, that’s sprained alright.”  

“I…I must be dreaming,” Wirt said, deadpan. He rubbed his eyes. _Of course_. He was dreaming—the talking bird proved it. He would wake up any second in his bed at home. Just any second now. Just any…second…now…

“What? Do birds not talk where you come from?” asked the bluebird, clearly offended by his statement.

Wirt matched and pressed his fingers together. “Well, actually…no, they don’t. Animals don’t talk at all.”

“Hmph,” the bird scoffed before looking up at Greg. “Thank you again. I guess I owe you a favor in return, but I—”

“You grant wishes?!” Greg’s eyes grew wide.

“Uh, no,” the bluebird responded.

Greg did not seem to notice. “Oh boy! I wish… _to be turned into a tiger!_ ”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Wirt interrupted. “Just let him have it.”

He hoped he was imagining that the bird was sighing in defeat.

“So what are the two of you doing out here alone?” inquired the bird. “Most people never come to this part of the woods, especially this late at night. Never know what could snatch you up.”

“I, well, we—wait a second, I’m not justifying myself to a _bird_.”

“I have a name!” snapped the bluebird.

“Birds have _names?_ ”

“Yes, and mine is Beatrice!”

“Hi Beatrice!” Greg chimed in, bringing Beatrice the Bluebird close to his face. “My name is Greg, and he’s Wirt! He’s my older brother.”

Beatrice the Bluebird glanced up at Wirt. “ _Wirt_? What kind of name is that?” she asked flatly.

“It’s _my_ name,” Wirt fired back. “Oh, c’mon, I’m talking with a bird! I _have_ to be dreaming.” He pinched himself as hard as he could.

“ _Newsflash_ , Wart, you aren’t dreaming. I’m as real as you and your brother are.”

He wanted to argue with this surprisingly feisty bird, but that would only be more ridiculous. In addition, he was slowly realizing that Beatrice the Bluebird was right—this was _not_ a dream—but he was not going to verbalize that to a bluebird.

“We’re trying to go home,” Greg broke the silence, seemingly unaware of the tension between the bird he held in his hands and his older brother standing in front of them. “Do you know the way back to that wall?”

“ W—wait, what?! You two came from over the _Garden Wall_?”

“Yeah…why? Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” Beatrice responded, albeit suspiciously, “but it’s been a while since anyone crossed that thing.”

“Can you help us get back?” Wirt requested, choosing to ignore Beatrice's hesitancy. If a talking bird could exist, then maybe it could guide them back.

But then another thought crossed his mind. Bizarre, yes, but so was a talking bird. If only he had something that would—

“I guess that’s how I can repay you,” said Beatrice. “But it’s a favor for Greg, not—hey, what are you doing?!”

Wirt was tying the red strand of yarn from his pocket tightly around one of Beatrice’s legs. He tightened the knot firmly enough so that it could not come undone, but it would not hurt the thin bird leg.

“What is this?!” Beatrice demanded. “What am I, your prisoner?!”

“You’re not a _prisoner_ ,” Wirt answered.

“Oh, are we keeping Beatrice as a pet?” Greg butted in before he could finish.

“I’m not—”

“ _No_ ,” Wirt interrupted. “You’re my gift to a…friend.”

“Must be some special _kind_ of friend for you to—” Beatrice immediately cut herself off. “Oh, it’s not just _any_ friend! This is the _romantic_ kind of friend."

Wirt wanted to rebuff the bird held in Greg’s hand, but he knew it was futile. His cheeks and the tips of his ears were hot, presumably as red as the yarn around Beatrice’s leg. He tied the other end to his wrist.

“Because _nothing_ says love like an injured, talking bluebird!” Beatrice taunted, sarcasm dripping with every inflection.

“Will you just lead us back to the wall, please?” Wirt barked.

“Why should I? You’ve already taken me in custody.”

“Well you’re going to go wherever I go, so you might as well just take us back. And you do kind of owe Greg a favor…”

The bird glared at Wirt. “Yeah, _for him_ , not for _you_ , Wart. And this—” the bird lifted its yarn-tied leg, “this is _not_ a favor. This is captivity!”

“Aww, you’re so cute when you go all puffy!” Greg complimented.

Several seconds of silence settled between the three. Wirt locked his eyes with the beady black ones of the bird in Greg’s cupped hands.

“Ugh, _fine_. But I’ll tell you right now that this nighttime won’t do us much good. It’s best if we wait until the morning to get a move on.”

“ _Morning_?” Wirt repeated in disbelief. “N-n-n-no, you don’t understand. We have to get home as soon as possible. Our next-door neighbor checks in on us every night and when he sees that we aren’t at the house, he’ll call our mom and then report us as missing!”

“Well, _you_ don’t understand. Considering where we are, you two were wandering around more than you think. We’ll only get more lost among these trees at night. So you better just wait until morning and get some sleep.”

“Are we camping tonight?” Greg questioned ecstatically. “Hooray! I’ve never been camping before.” He bounced away, Beatrice still in his hands, to settle against one of the wider, heftier trees.

Wirt followed to keep up with the red, woolen link between him and the talking bluebird, grumbling to himself. Stupid bird. He took a seat next to Greg and glanced up at the shadow canopy of the trees. No longer did they enthrall him; he still could not understand the sensation that had burned within him when he was at the top of the wall, when he was crossing the open meadow towards the trees. These trees were now foreboding, with an eeriness that sent the hairs on his neck standing straight up. From the soft glow of the moonlight bearing on one of the tree trunks ahead of him, Wirt could see that it was different from most of the other trees surrounding it. It was more knotted than others, with hollows and twisted bark that, in the moonlight, resembled a face, if he stared at the configuration long enough. Another sharp shiver went up his spine ( _I need not its breathing/To bring such thoughts to me/But still it whispered lowly/How dark the woods will be_!).

Wirt took off the red hat he had been wearing and placed it on his lap. He closed his eyes, ignoring Greg's tenderly lullaby. This _had_ to be a dream. When we woke up in the morning, he would not be on the ground in a forest, but underneath his layers of blankets and flat against his mattress. There would be no talking bluebird, let alone a talking bluebird who would give him sass.

He drifted off to sleep faster than he had anticipated.

* * *

The man stepped outside of his shack, holding an oil lantern in his hand. Another chilly night, it would seem, despite the warm weather from earlier in the day. All he needed was to gather some of the firewood for the dying fire he made a few hours before. Five minutes, tops, outside to pick out a few pieces and head back inside.

At the pile of firewood, the sudden burst of wind informed him of its presence.

“It has happened, my friend. What we have been waiting for is already in place.”

When the man turned around, it was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Beatrice is officially in the story. I promise this is where the story really kicks off. Nothing but unadulterated adventures here.
> 
> Poetry credit: “Success is Counted Sweetest” by Emily Dickenson, “Song of the Trees” by Mary Colborne-Veel, and “The Night-wind” by Emily Bronte


	5. A Day in the Woods

“Hey Wart, wake up.”

“It’s _Wirt_ ,” mumbled Wirt, shifting to his left side, not opening his eyes.

“Well, wake up anyways. I’m assuming you’re hungry and I know what you can forage around these parts, but you and I are unfortunately tied together.”

“Mmph,” Wirt groaned. “Just a few more seconds, Beatrice.”

His eyes shot wide open. The bluebird was obscenely close to his face, and he was outside. He was supposed to be in his room, not here, over the Garden Wall and lost in the woods, with a talking bluebird and Greg—

Wirt shot up to his feet. “Where’s Greg?”

“I sent him looking for some berries for the two of you to eat,” Beatrice stated. “Man, but that kid is the biggest ball of energy I have ever seen!”

“Yeah, try living with him,” Wirt grumbled, standing up from the base of the tree and dusting off his clothes and cape. He placed the hat atop his head, though he was uncertain why he felt the need to do so.

“Umm, forgetting something?” Beatrice asked. He looked down to see the bluebird still on the ground, somehow managing to give him a disapproving look (in the best way that a bird could give such a glare; Wirt still had difficulty comprehending that a bird was talking to him). “I can’t fly. My wing is sprained, remember? And you’re forcibly taking me with you, so…”

Wirt resisted the urge to scoff, instead reaching down to pick her up and place her on his shoulder. The yarn connecting them draped around his shoulder and in front of him. “So is Greg close by? You can’t trust him by himself for too long.”

“Don’t worry, he’s not too far. I sent him off just before I woke you up. Now whether or not he’ll actually find the _right_ berries is a whole different matter.”

As Beatrice had estimated, after a brisk walk that was barely even five minutes long, the two of them found Greg sitting next to a bush, picking at swollen, oval-shaped red fruits. He had a pile of the fruits on his lap, and—judging by the smears of red around his mouth—a few in his mouth. “Wvirts! Bstrish!” he mumbled through his mouthful of the fruit, a large smile on his face once he caught sight of Wirt and Beatrice. “Hr!” he picked a few of the fruits up from his lap and outstretched his hand to Wirt.

“They’re rose hips,” Beatrice chirped in Wirt’s ear. Clearly, she had noticed his hesitancy in accepting one of the fruits.

“And these are edible?”

“I used to—” Beatrice abruptly cut off and a hesitation before she continued, “I used to see people pick these and make other things that they eat, like jam or pies.”

Wirt raised an eyebrow. “And you… _don’t_ see any of that anymore?”

“Not many people come out to this part of the woods, at least not in the past few years,” the bluebird replied. “You two are the first I’ve come across in weeks, and you’re two kids from the other side who don’t know any better.”

Wirt took offense to that last statement, but he knew he could not argue with its truth. He begrudgingly grabbed one of the rose hips and nibbled on it. It was a taste never experienced before—unique and almost floral, not overly sweet, and almost bitter, but not overwhelmingly so. He crouched down next to Greg so he could help pick several more of the bright red rose hips.

“Aren’t you going to eat anything, Beatrice?” asked Greg after the bush was plucked free of rose hips and distributed between the brothers.

“There were some maggots I got to eat while you two were sleeping,” the bird remarked. “I’m set.”

“M-maggots were near where we were sleeping?” Wirt nervously asked, attempting to discreetly check himself for any white, wiggling larva.

“I ate them all,” Beatrice responded, deadpan. “And you’re out in the woods, you can’t worry about cleanliness right now.”

Wirt folded his arms across his chest. In the corner of his eye, he saw Greg putting his hand down his pants. “Greg! You can’t stuff everything down your pants.”

“But candy, Wirt!” Greg explained happily, a handful of assorted bite-sized candies in his palm extended to Wirt. “We won’t go _too_ hungry." 

“Does he—”

“Uh-huh,” Wirt interrupted before Beatrice could even finish. From the candy that Greg was offering, Wirt chose a (squished) square of chocolate. He unwrapped it and pushed it into his mouth, pretending that the candy had not been down Greg’s pants for over twelve hours.

The bird on Wirt’s shoulder repositioned her feet. “Okay, enough dilly-dallying. If you want to make it back to the Garden Wall before sunset, we have to leave now.”

“Sunset?! How far are we?”

“The both of you wandered farther than you think,” Beatrice answered straightforwardly. “Yeah, this is technically the outskirts of the woods, but the outskirts are pretty thick. The town closest to the Garden Wall isn’t for another dozen miles.”

Wirt moaned.

“Well, up and at ’em!” Greg exclaimed, standing up and patting Wirt’s free shoulder.

This _had_ to be a dream. He was not only taking directions from a talking bluebird, but also from _Greg_

* * *

“…and that’s how we got over here!” Greg finished explaining.

“That’s it?” Beatrice asked in disbelief.

Wirt shrugged. “It’s not the most _riveting_ story. It’s no _Odyssey_ or _Ulysses_.”

“What?”

He pretended not to hear Beatrice’s remark.

He and Greg had been walking for several hours now. The sun was directly above; he could assume that it was close to noon. Compared to yesterday’s rather warm weather, today was more akin to what mid-autumn was meant to feel like—a strangely inviting kind of chilly. After leaving the rose hip bush, Beatrice sent them in one direction, once in a while breaking Greg’s stream-of-consciousness ramblings to point out a turn.

“Okay, we’ll be on this stretch for a while,” she had said at the last turn. “Might as well tell some stories to pass the time.”

So Greg went into how he and Wirt crossed the Garden Wall.

“And that’s supposed to be a wizard costume? You look like a gnome,” Beatrice added after Wirt’s comment. Wirt steamed silently; for a costume that he had not picked out for himself, he admitted to being weirdly defensive of being mistaken for a gnome when he was meant to be a wizard. Wizwirt the Wizard. _I sound like Greg_.

“Anything else you wanna know?” asked Wirt apathetically.

“Not really,” said the bird. “Oh, wait, no—tell me about this person you’re giving me to.”

“ _What_.”

“Yeah. Remember, I’m a gift for this girl? Or boy—”

Wirt hoped that birds could not pick up on blushing. “She’s a girl.”

“Okay, well tell me about her." 

“Why should I?”

“I mean, you’re taking me _to_ her. I’m going to be her gift, aren’t I? Her pet? I ought to know something _about_ her. You know, will she take care of me? Is she kind? What does she look like?”

Wirt kept quiet. Beatrice had a fair point, but he did not wish to speak about his infatuation for Sara to _anyone_ , let alone to a talking bluebird that he was gifting to her. “She goes to school with me,” he began, “and…she’s nice.”

If birds could snort, then this was the opportune time. “You say that as if she _isn’t._ ”

“She is!” Wirt argued, his cheeks growing even hotter than just seconds before. “She really is. I just don’t want talk about it, okay? You’ll meet her and you’ll like her, I promise.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Beatrice mumbled; Wirt could practically hear the eye rolling, though he was still uncertain if that was something birds could do. Maybe it was strictly a characteristic akin to talking birds.

In front of them, Greg stopped in his tracks. Wirt barely managed to avoid running into the back of his younger half-brother. “What now, Greg?” he groaned.

“I'm hungry.”

“Don’t you have candy in your pants?” Wirt mentioned.

Greg clearly ignored this statement. “Is there something here we can eat, Beatrice?”

The bird darted her head around. “There might be some nuts or another rose hip bush along the way, but we’ll have to carry on. I don’t see anything right now.”

Wirt heeded Beatrice’s direction; he heard Greg heave a disapproving sigh before his little feet scurried to meet up with his older brother and the bluebird settled on his shoulder. Wirt glanced at several of the trees ahead them. A few, speckled within the others, were similar to the one he noticed the previous night.

“Hey, Beatrice, what kind of trees are those?”

“Which ones?”

“The ones that look like they have faces.”

“Oh.” Beatrice paused. “They’re Edelwood trees. They…they’re just a different species of tree.”

“I’ve never heard of Edelwood,” Wirt thought aloud, but then again, he never heard of rose hips before, and botany was not his forte. “Why are there less of the Edelwoods than the other trees?”

“They get cut down a lot,” Beatrice responded without hesitation. “You know, they make good lumber for building homes and whatnot.”

Wirt chose to believe the talking bird.

It was another hour or so when his own stomach audibly howled for food. “Greg, can I have some of your candy?”

“Sure thing!” Greg pulled another handful of candy from his pants and passed it to Wirt. Crushed chocolates and a broken lollipop, but some of the hard candies were still intact. He opened the hard fruit candies and jumbled them in his mouth. Not the most substantial, filling food available (surprisingly, the amount of rose hips he had eaten for breakfast kept him full for some time), but it would tie him over for a few minutes until Beatrice could point out another edible wild berry bush or any nuts.

“Are we going the right way?” he asked after swallowing his sugary snack. “I don’t remember any of this. Do you remember this, Greg?”

“Nope!”

“Of course you don’t,” Beatrice snapped. “The two of you were wandering around at night, and I’ll say it again—you went farther than you think. Everything is going to look the same at night, no matter how great your eyesight is. Don’t worry; we’re on the path.”

“Hey, tell us about yourself!” Greg piped up, addressing Beatrice. “What’s it like to be a bird?”

“And how can you talk?” Wirt added. “I’m still not convinced that this isn’t one of those really vivid crazy dreams.”

But Beatrice was not one for many words. “Things are different on this side of the Garden Wall,” she responded coolly, as if that was explanation enough. “There’s a reason that wall separates you from me.”

“That doesn’t…” Wirt began. He wanted to finish with “answer my question,” but decided to drop the subject. Judging from the tone in Beatrice’s voice, maybe it was best that he and Greg remained blissfully unaware of what Beatrice meant. Then they could return home and put everything behind them. And Beatrice’s abilities could be a secret between him, Greg, and Sara.

“Being a bird is fine,” Beatrice continued, her voice absent of the ambiguous, ominous warning from before. “I can fly, which is pretty great. Freedom and all that hullabaloo.”

Greg clapped his hands. “I wanna be a _tiger_. That’d be _so cool_. All big and strong and fast—and pretty! Tiger stripes are really pretty.”

“Greg has a fascination with tigers,” was the best that Wirt could explain.

Beatrice made a noise that could only be a bird’s equivalent to a single chuckle. “I’ve noticed. Do _you_ want to be a type of animal?”

“Me? _Nooo_ , I like having opposable thumbs,” Wirt said, flexing his fingers, his thumbs encircling each other.

Several minutes went by in silence, save for the rumbling of Greg and Wirt’s hungry stomachs.

“You know, I think there’s a black walnut tree just a few yards ahead. Those will satisfy some of that hunger,” Beatrice recited. Within five minutes, she ordered them to stop at one of the trees with yellowing leaves.

“We have to climb for these?” Wirt complained.

“I can’t fly and pick them for you,” Beatrice retorted. “Sprained wing here. And it’s not too far of a climb; definitely shorter than going up that Garden Wall. I can see some walnuts.”

Wirt looked up. Despite the golden leaves, a multitude of miniature green globes in clumps were dispersed on the branches. Before Wirt could even bring himself to just a few inches off of the ground, clutching to the tree’s trunk, Greg was already straddling the first thick branch from the ground, picking off the walnut clusters. Wirt, with Beatrice still on shoulder, made his way the same level as Greg and took a different, nearby branch. He had done more tree-climbing, or any kind of climbing, in the past two days than he had when he was Greg’s age.

“The nuts are inside the husks,” Beatrice mentioned after several seconds of Wirt’s inability to decipher how to open the walnut bunch he first picked off the branch. Wirt cracked one of the husks against the branch, using the fraction to separate the fleshy pod into two separate pieces. Inside, a dark brown walnut begged to be eaten.

Another thirty minutes or so of eating as many black walnuts as they could, Wirt and Greg took half a dozen walnut clusters each for later. Wirt stuffed his in his pockets, some of the bulbs escaping out of the lip of the pockets but otherwise inside. Greg, as usual, put his walnuts in his pants. More than likely he was running out of candy, leaving plenty of space for the walnuts. Having candy and walnuts bunched around his legs could not be comfortable, but Greg never whined about it. 

They scrambled down the tree. “Tummies nice and full?” Beatrice asked.

Greg patted his belly. “Absolutely! Lead the way, Princess Beatrice!”

“I’m not a princess,” Beatrice commented from Wirt’s other shoulder, but she was less snappy about it.

* * *

 The sun was beginning to go down, and the Garden Wall was nowhere in sight.

“You said we’d make it by sunset,” Wirt looked at the bluebird, his brows furrowed together. “Well the sun is _setting_ , and we’re not near it.”

“I probably misjudged how much time its taking,” Beatrice casually waved off. “If we don’t get there when the sun is totally gone, we can definitely make it in the morning.”

“ _The morning_?!” Wirt was not intending to spend another night on the other side of the Garden Wall. Tomorrow would be Monday, and if his neighbor had not already called his mother to inform her that her sons were not home, then the schools would definitely notify her of their absences. He panicked. “I can’t wait that long! I have to be in school, and—you _promised_ we would get back by tonight!”

“Excuse you!” Beatrice hollered shrilly. “You basically _kidnap_ me and _demand_ that I help you get back to the Garden Wall, and I’m kind enough to even go along with your _shitty_ plan!”

Wirt fumed as Greg let out an “ooooooooh” in response to Beatrice’s profanity. “Shut up Greg,” Wirt spat out.

“You should be _thanking_ me for even helping you at all!” Beatrice charged on. “I could just not say a thing and let you lug me around, watching the two of you get even more lost and up for the—”

She closed her beak without a thought, almost as though she planned to close up and not say another word. The tension between the three was heavier than Wirt and Greg’s mother’s homemade chowders. Beatrice turned her little bird away from the glances of Wirt and Greg. “Just—wait a little longer. If the Garden Wall isn’t near in the next twenty minutes or so, then we can wake up early tomorrow and head over, okay?” Her voice was stressed and taut.

They walked in trepid silence for another thirty minutes or so. Wirt and Greg took a minor break to eat some of their walnuts and the last bit of Greg’s candy as dinner. The sun and its remaining light were officially gone, and the darkness enveloped over them again.

“You can probably walk another two hours in the same direction,” Beatrice dared to say. Wirt did not reply, and did as was advised.

“Ugh, Wirt, I’m _tired_ ,” Greg mumbled, taking a seat at the base of a tree to rub his feet. “Can we stop here for the night?"

Wirt’s frustration wanted him to persist walking in hopes of getting as close to the wall as they could in the night, but his heavy eyelids and sore feet pleaded for him to collapse next to his brother. “Fine,” he answered, taking a seat next to Greg. He automatically lifted Beatrice off of his shoulder and plopped her on the ground in between them, then ate one more walnut. He was incredibly thirsty and yearned for just a sip of sweet, refreshing water, but pushed the thought aside.

Tomorrow they would finally reach the Garden Wall, and then he could hand the stupid bird off to Sara. Or maybe Sara would not like having such a hotheaded, mean-spirited talking bird. He could show Beatrice and her unusual attribute to Sara, and then set the bird free for good. But first, they had to reach their destination—tomorrow morning, when the sun rose ( _Yet knowing how way leads on to way,/ I doubted if I should ever come back)._

* * *

 Beatrice was uncertain how much time had passed before both Wirt and Greg fell asleep. Wirt was the quickest to drift off; his slight, occasional twitching, slowed breathing, and low snoring indicated to Beatrice that the eldest was unconscious within twenty minutes since he propped himself against the base of the tree. Greg, on the other hand, the one who was supposedly so “tired,” kept rolling around in attempt to find a comfortable position. He muttered gibberish to himself as he did this, and occasionally Beatrice would see his eyes open, gazing up at the stars above. She started to take count of how long it would take for the boy to enter his slumber, but lost count somewhere around ninety. 

But then came the cyclical, reduced inhaling and exhaling, and Beatrice could finally relax. She still needed to wait—although its patterns were regular, she was bad at estimating time, especially with the amount it took for Greg to sleep—but at least she did not have to worry about it happening while one of the boys were alive.

Perhaps it was another forty or fifty minutes before the rumblings inside Beatrice’s stomach began—and it was not a pang of hunger. _Thank God_ , Beatrice thought. With her limp and lame wing, she tried the best she could to wrap her wings around her front. The straining of her injured wing caused some discomfort in her right side, and a significant portion of her rosy orange chest was exposed to the autumn night’s chill, but it did not matter.

Beatrice could never describe exactly how it felt. It was painless, even now with her sprained wing. But even as she remained stationary, there was always a blast around her, as if she were sprinting and the air, windy or not, was brushing past her. On rare occasions, it was as if she were falling—tumbling so rapidly and so deeply and for so long until a sudden jerk startled her and brought her back to reality. That was how it felt tonight; the ground suddenly nonexistent, herself curled into a ball, plummeting until an abrupt, piercing quiver ran up her spine. She opened her eyes.

Her blue-feathered wings were replaced with human arms and hands. She brought the sprained arm to her side, the limb flopped on the ground. Human legs and feet restored. Beatrice touched pressed the palm of her right hand against her face. No beak, but a human nose, cheeks, and mouth. She let her fingers gently comb through her messy, tangled red hair.  

The bird-turned-human smiled.

It was unfortunate that the two boys found her on one of the nights in which she was unable to transform. She did not anticipate a teenaged boy like Wirt taking her as prisoner, but it was a mere setback, though. Stall the two of them until the next night, and then make her escape once they were asleep and she was a human. Wirt, despite his stubbornness, was also rather easy to trick in misguiding.  And Greg was just a little boy who followed his brother around (except when he did not). Instead of taking them closer to the Garden Wall, Beatrice directed them towards the nearest town—Pottsfield, a town she never visited herself but heard plenty about. That way, when she did escape in the night, she could run into town and find an inn to stay at for the night—sleep in a bed for the first time in, well, a while. Maybe even a doctor could treat her sprained arm.

Beatrice stared at the red yarn tied around her ankle. “Damn you, Wirt,” she whispered. The knot was too miniscule for her to untie, even with two working hands, let alone one that could barely move thanks to her sprain. Her fingernails were too short for her to dig under the microscopic folds and pry open the knot. For a brief second, she considered cutting the circle around her ankle, but immediately realized that she did not have a knife, and more than likely neither of the boys did either. Would tearing the yarn work? With her sprain, it was hard to tug at the string.

“Dammit,” Beatrice huffed. How could a stupid piece of yarn stand in her way of breaking free? If only she had her beak, then she could possibly saw it apart.

 _Wait a second_. The girl looked around the tree that the two boys were sleeping against. In the darkness, it was hard to find what she was searching for with her eyes alone. Beatrice brought her left hand to the trunk of the tree, lining her fingers around the bark in hopes of a snag. After a minute or so, the tip of her index finger ran across a jagged edge, thick enough that it would not break off of the tree. It would be difficult, considering that the piece of tree bark—though not even two feet above the ground—was just barely in the range that Beatrice could bring the slack of the yarn to the edge. She would have to be careful in not waking up Wirt as she sawed the yarn; the back-and-forth motion tugged at Wirt’s wrist if Beatrice sawed too vigorously.  It was harder than she had thought; she still had to hold the yarn with both of her hands, and applying pressure to hold it in her feebly injured hand was rather agonizing. _Better than Wirt_. But the yarn itself was rather poor quality, cheaply made (she remembered these tidbits from her mother and grandmother). Using the tip of the bark, she was able to split the individual threads, and then saw them against the bark. Beatrice wondered why Wirt would have this in his pocket, but immediately forgot her concerns once the threads broke apart.

Beatrice smiled. “Yes!” she whispered enthusiastically to herself. She pressed her left forearm against the tree trunk and struggled to stand on her feet. Her lame arm weighed her down, causing her to stumble and temporarily lose her balance before instinctively repositioning her feet and sprouting upwards. With nothing to sling her arm, Beatrice cupped her right elbow in her left palm and brought the sprained limb as close to her body as she could without causing too much strain.

“So long, _Wart_ ,” she quietly grumbled to Wirt. Her gaze fell upon the sleeping Greg. “You’re not so bad,” she said to the sleeping boy.

She stepped away and sped-walked towards Pottsfield.

She was on a deadline.

* * *

Several yards away, the man watched the girl scramble away from the sleeping boys.

“How are they, my friend?”

“Are you sure about them?” asked the man. “They are so young—”

“You know youth has nothing to do with it, my friend. I can sense it the closer I get to them.”

The man glanced to his left. The shadowy being was behind one of the Edelwood trees, looking fondly at the two boys asleep against the tree.

“And a good thing the bird-girl is gone, too. She posed no threat; in fact, she kind of helped my— _our_ case, leading them closer to us. But she isn’t important to what we need.”

“What if she comes back?”

“She won’t. She’s upset with the eldest boy. She’s deserted them for good.”

The man brought his eyes back to the sleeping brothers. “When do you—”

“Not yet,” the voice curtailed. “It’s too early. We must wait.”

“Then the lantern stays with me,” the man informed, pulling the oil lantern in his hand closer to his body, and walked away from the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly I finished this chapter over a week ago, but I waited to upload it in case I wanted to add anything to it. And so, on the eve of my finals (which I should be studying/writing for, but alas), I thought I would present my readers with another chapter...and a plot twist! If you are familiar with the movie "Ladyhawke," then you will see some parallels. Not entirely sure when the next chapter will be posted, as I'm still in the process of writing it. But keep a look out.
> 
> Poetry credit: "The Road Less Taken" by Robert Frost, aka one of the most cliché poems known today. But I thought the line I used fit well with the overall themes present in OTGW as well as my fic.


	6. Adelaide

Despite the length, Beatrice’s blue gown was not meant to be worn at night, let alone in the autumn night. The cap sleeves were short, and the fabric was thin. Lovely for the spring or summer, when the nights were gentle and pleasant.  She shivered as she rushed through the trees, her feet frequently tripping on the hem of the dress; a constant transition of speed-walking and jogging and minor tumbles forward. If it was not for her sprained arm, she would have lifted the skirt of her dress so that she could move at an even quicker pace. Her left wrist was growing numb and tired from holding up her right arm, but there was not much she could do to ease the situation.

She trudged through the forest, determined to reach Pottsfield as quickly as possible. She knew so little about Pottsfield other than it was the closest town to the Garden Wall, in addition to being one of the last towns remaining, and that not many people lived there. From where Wirt and Greg had decided to sleep, the town could not be any more than five miles walk—approximately an hour and a half at her slowest. Despite tripping over her dress, her pace was quite fast. She would be at Pottsfield sooner than if she were walking at her normal step.

If she had the means to do so, she would have written a note and left it for Wirt and Greg, letting them know that the Garden Wall was to the west for another dozen miles or so. Even if Wirt was a whiny jerk, the thought of the two boys wandering around the woods lost and alone did not sit well on her conscience. And Greg had been the one to pull her out of the bush. Maybe at Pottsfield, she could send someone to deliver the message.

Beatrice’s teeth chattered at the arrival of a night wind. “C’mon, Beatrice, you can do this,” she mumbled to herself. Pottsfield was close. It _had_ to be close. She did not venture miles out of the Garden Wall’s way just to be lost herself. She searched for any indicator—a sign, a landmark, _anything_ —that would inform her of her distance from Pottsfield. But even with the moonlight out, she saw nothing that could indicate her bearings.

But she was so _sure_ when it was still daylight.

Beatrice stopped in her tracks to survey her surroundings. Trees, trees, trees—endless trees, with a few bushes. She ignored the sampling of Edelwoods. She could not bear to admit it to herself, but she had been heading in the same direction for approximately an hour and half now, and yet Pottsfield was unattainable. She gritted her teeth together to prevent the chattering. “Shit,” she whispered. At least she was free from the yarn, and Wirt. She would not have minded if Greg was accompanying her; he was just a little boy who did not know any better, and even though he was constantly energetic and excited, he reminded her of her younger siblings. For a fleeting few seconds, she smiled at the thought of them.

She persisted onwards in the same direction. Pottsfield was near, she refused to believe otherwise. Her left wrist was cramping now; she let her arms drop to her sides, stretching her left wrist to soothe it of its soreness. The injured arm felt was a dead weight attached to the right side of her body, but it gave her some relief to not hold the arm in front of her body, in the same position, for nearly two hours while she was fleeing from her captors. _Captor?_

Another fifteen minutes, and no sign of Pottsfield anywhere near. Beatrice swore to herself and questioned if it was time to give up. On nights she was a human, she tried to do as much as she could in the short amount of time she was allotted. But tonight, with a lame arm and a crippling fear of defeat slowly eating away at her sanity, sleeping was sounding like a far more entertaining activity. When dawn cracked, she would be a bluebird again, and then she could worry about fixing her arm for another two nights or so. As long as she was far away from Wirt and his red yarn.

But then again, what harm was a few extra steps?

And she was so thankful that her determination got the best of her. Just within an extra five minutes of walking, the faint smell of smoke wafted through the air, alerting Beatrice that somewhere there was civilization. Her eyes widened at the smoky odor, enlivening her spirit and fatigued human body. She scanned the shadows of tree trunks for the source of the burning. She advanced further, this time walking slowly so not to get her hopes up. Flickering in the distance was a tiny, orangey-yellow light.

Beatrice’s heart soared. _Civilization_!. Immediately she sprinted as quickly as her feet allowed, tripping over her dress and all, towards the light. The air gradually became more pungent with the stench of burning wood as she approached the source—a cottage amidst a patch of pasture, with a candle burning in the lattice-crossed window. A chimney spewed a stream of smoke.

“Hello?!” she knocked on the door with her left hand. “Hello, please—I…I’m lost and hurt!”

An elderly voice arose from inside, muffled by the walls and door. “Who are you?”

“My name is Beatrice,” she responded, “please, I’m no trouble, I promise.”

There was a pause, in which Beatrice held her breath without even recognizing it. “Come in, but be sure to lock the door when you do,” the voice finally said.

Relieved, Beatrice exhaled and did as she was told. Tightly closing the door behind her, he stepped inside the cottage—delightfully warm and cozy, a stark contrast to the pugnacious, frigid air that she had been running around in. The inside was smaller than the outside let on: the house was no more than one room, cluttered about with boxes, books, and craftworks. A hearty fire roared in the fireplace, the warmth oddly sweet against Beatrice’s exposed skin. To her left, Beatrice caught sight of a large elderly woman reclining on a bed, crocheting.

“Oh, you poor dear, what is a girl like you doing out so late at night?” asked the woman, though she remained in her bed, tucked underneath a thick quilt.

“I…I was out earlier in the day searching for rose hips for my mother to make some jam, but I suppose I ventured too far and got lost. I’m trying to make my way back to Pottsfield.”

The old woman raised an eyebrow. “Pottsfield? I’m afraid you’ve gone in the wrong direction, my dear. Pottsfield is to the east for another ten miles or so. Lucky for you that I am still awake at this hour.”

Beatrice disregarded what her conscience was pounding in her brain. _Wirt and Greg are even more lost than you’d thought_.

“What time is it?” Beatrice asked.

“Just a little over midnight, now.” The woman beckoned with her hand for Beatrice to step closer. “And what is this about being hurt?”

Beatrice walked towards the bed and lifted her sprained arm for the woman to examine. “Yes, well…I don’t know how, but I managed to sprain my arm, and I’ve nothing to treat it.” The woman held the arm in her wrinkled but soft hands. “Do you have something I can sling it with?”

“I have something better,” the woman answered with a smile. “Check over the mantelpiece for a jar of green jelly, if you please.”

Beatrice stepped towards the fireplace’s mantelpiece in search for what the woman requested. On the far right corner, hidden in between other jars containing other mysterious substances, stood a fat jar filled with a translucent, lime-green gelatin. She picked it up and handed it to the woman, who instantly unscrewed the lid and dipped her hand into the jar. “Hold out your arm, dear,” she commanded. Without question, Beatrice stuck out her right arm, stifling her visible expressions of pain. The woman rubbed the jelly over Beatrice’s skin forcefully, but Beatrice remained pivoted in her stance, pressing her lips together to prevent herself from crying out in agony. The woman finished, then whispered several words in a language that Beatrice could not identify.

“There; give it about thirty minutes or so.”

“I…I don’t mean to be rude, but how is this going to help my arm?”

The woman flicked her eyes up to face Beatrice directly. “It’s an enchanted healing serum. Made it myself, not that I use it often.”

Enchanted? “Are…are you a witch?”

The woman grinned in response. “Yes, my name is Adelaide.”

Beatrice hesitated. “I didn’t know witches still existed.”

“Very few do. The only other witch I know personally is my sister,” Adelaide wistfully glanced at the window, “but she chooses not to use her magical capabilities anymore.”

Was Adelaide’s confession a cause for worry? Beatrice wracked her brain for answers. She knew little about witches and never came across one, but she assumed that some were kind and friendly. Adelaide was being kind and friendly. If she really was the last remaining witch in the realm, then what reason would she have to be malevolent? 

Adelaide returned her attentions to Beatrice. “Please take a seat by the fire; it’s dreadfully cold out there. My old brittle bones cannot withstand even the autumn air these days. I remain inside and keep this place of mine as warm as possible.” Adelaide tossed the girl a blue and white quilt that was at the foot of the bed. “Use this if you’d like for any extra warmth. And if you’re hungry, the pot in the fireplace has some leftover pear and turnip soup. You’ll find a bowl and spoon in the box nearest to the fireplace.”

As she wrapped the comfy quilt around shoulders, it occurred to Beatrice just how famished she was (and that the pain in her arm was less pulsating). Earlier in the day, she was jealous that Wirt and Greg could eat the rose hips and black walnuts. She missed the rose hip jams that her mother would make around this time of year, and climbing walnut trees with her younger siblings to acquire as many walnuts as they could to take back to their home, provided that they did not eat any along the way.  Beatrice grabbed herself a bowl and spoon and ladled the creamy golden soup into her bowl. She settled herself on the floor next to the fireplace. One spoonful of the subtly sweet soup slid down her throat, instantly warming her insides.

“My, you’re quite hungry.”

Beatrice nodded in response, devouring her soup rapidly. She could not even remember the last time she ate any of her mother’s specialty soups—especially the homemade bean and barley soup. Maggots and worms were fine to eat in her bird form (and surprisingly substantial), but she often spent her human nights ravenous or picking at a few items she managed to forage. It was easier to find berries in the summer. Once in the late summer, she happened to cross an outdoors wedding reception and managed to steal seven sourdough bread rolls and a block of cheese the size of her palm. She stuffed her face with her pilfered dinner in less than ten minutes that night.

“You can have more if you’d like,” Adelaide said as soon as Beatrice swallowed her last dollop.

Without hesitation, Beatrice refilled her bowl, but this time, she did not attack the soup. “Thank you for your hospitality. I was afraid that I would be spending the night alone in the woods with a sprained arm.” Well; she had spent nights in the wood alone as a human many times—but never with an injured body part.

“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” Adelaide responded. “I don’t get many visitors. Even my sister has stopped visiting me.”

Beatrice remained quiet, unsure of how to reply to such a remark.

“But I make do. I do get lonely. I never married or had children—a personal choice I admit, and one I still stick to, I would be a terrible mother. I used to have several birds who kept me company, a pair of lovebirds and even a lovely bluebird, but they died a while ago, and I never got around to replacing them with another pet. And I’m getting older; even with my magic, it’s difficult to do certain things.” Adelaide stopped to squint her eyes. “What is that around your ankle?”

Beatrice stuck out her foot. The yarn that Wirt had tied around her bird leg was still encircled around her human ankle, a tail straggling from the knot. “Oh, um, my brother and I were playing a game. I guess I forgot about it.”

“And your arm? How is it doing?”

Beatrice outstretched her right arm, bending at the elbow and flexing her fingers. It was as though it had never seen an injury. “Thank you!”

“Not a problem. Tell me, how did you hurt your arm in the first place?”

“I was—I fell out of a tree."

“Ahh, that’ll do it. Oh, what I would do to be young again.” She smiled at Beatrice. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“And a good age to be. Have any potential suitors wandered into your life recently?”

Beatrice refrained from rolling her eyes in front of her hostess. That was something she did not miss about being a human all the time—her mother and others constantly discussing her future with a “potential suitor.” The few boys her age whom she did know (excluding Wirt) tended to avoid her. She kissed a boy once, when she was thirteen, but nothing came out of that minor tryst, and he chose to ignore her, too. “Nope. If anything, I’m running away from boys.”

 _Shit_. Did she blow her cover? Beatrice mentally smacked herself, wishing she could rewind time and take back those words. But she had said them, and they were out in the open.

But it appeared as though Adelaide did not pick up on Beatrice’s inner panic. “Oh, I see—too _many_ potential suitors?”

“Yeah,” Beatrice accepted, going along with the woman’s preconceptions. “Abhorrent admirers and the like.”

Silence arose, save the crackling of the fire. “I assume you are awfully tired,” Adelaide’s voice filled the room. “You are more than welcome to sleep here tonight. I can fix you a breakfast in the morning.”

“That’s kind, but I’ll probably wake up around sunrise and head back home to Pottsfield. I’m kind of an early bird,” Beatrice assured, half-proud at that witticism she added at the end.

“Well, then do stay for those few hours then. Have a pillow.”

Adelaide handed the girl one of the throw pillows. Beatrice set it aside and reclined on the floor, her head resting against the pillow and the quilt blanketed over her. The fire in front of her summoned her to relax and sleep—even if for a few hours, the chance to sleep with a blanket, pillow, and a roaring fire came few and far in between these days. She closed her eyes and wondered why a strange woman had been so altruistic this late at night.

“Just go to sleep and dream of sweet things,” Adelaide soothed. “In the morning, we can worry about that curse of yours, Beatrice.”

“Thank you,” Beatrice mumbled sleepily.

Her eyes opened.

Beatrice shot up quickly, heart pounding erratically, a wash of dread crushing at her throat. 

Adelaide sneered, the motherly face now hardened with a diabolic glare. “You really need to keep your stories in check."

Beatrice could only mutter insignificant phrases. “How do you—what—I don’t—”

Adelaide twisted her mouth into a mischievous grin. "But even then, I could never forget your face, darling. It’s not every day a pretty red-haired girl throws rocks at my bluebird.”

* * *

“ _Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrtttt…”_

A small, pudgy hand rocked Wirt back and forth. Wirt swatted it away.

“ _Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrttttt!”_

“Ugh, _what_ , Greg?” Wirt grumbled, opening his eyes and rubbing away the flecks of dried eye rheum in the corners. The morning sun was out—it could not be any more than eight-thirty—but thick white clouds marbleized the blue sky. Another one of the colder days of the fall, with a biting breeze to prove it. His face crinkled irritably at being woken up as well as the weather.

“I woke up when the sun woke up and I wanted you to get your sleep but I couldn’t wait any longer to tell you because it’s important!” Greg charged without a breath. At the end of his sentence he inhaled heavily to compensate for the breath he used before.

“ _What_?”

“Beatrice is missing!”

“Greg, no, that’s not poss—”

Wirt glanced at the yarn encircled around his wrist. The remaining tail was outstretched on the ground next to him, abruptly ending with red frays of wool. The bluebird was indeed gone.

“No, no, nononononononono!” Wirt cried out frantically, jumping to his feet. His hat fell to the ground, and he quickly snatched it back up to place it on his head. _Dammit!_ he thought to himself. He should have expected that Beatrice would escape and leave the two of them in the dust. Stupid talking bluebird. Now what did have to give to Sara as proof that he ventured over the Garden Wall?

How would he and Greg get back home?

“On the bright side, I found a frog!” Greg chimed, holding up a green amphibian in his hands, stretching his arms as far as they would reach. The frog, right at Wirt’s mouth, stared blankly at the older boy. Wirt held its gaze for a second or two before burying his face into the palms of his hands. His mind raced with what to do now. Sit and wait for someone to pass by? No; in the past two days he had spent on this side, the only other person he saw was Greg. Walk in the direction that they had come from? Maybe, but it could end up with them just getting more lost. Walk the direction that Beatrice had led them on? Another plausible option, but what if Beatrice had been lying to them all along? Take another route? Definitely not; it was a recipe for utter disaster.

Wirt reached into his pocket for a black walnut. His stock was running low, but he would have to savor them while still in these unforsaken woods—at least until he found some other wild nuts or berries that could be safe to eat. Not that he knew much about foraging, he only relied on Beatrice’s intel for the rose hips and walnuts. At least that information was accurate.

“What should I name him?” Greg continued, intently examining the frog he held. “He needs a good frog name.”

“We have more _pressing_ matters on our hands, Greg,” Wirt snapped, “like how to get home?”

The boy smiled. “Don’t worry! Skip will show us the way!”

“Skip?”

“The frog! It’s what I’m calling him until I can think of something better.” Greg outstretched the frog once more, this time closing his eyes and spinning around. “Oh great Skip, which way shall we take so we can go back home?”

Wirt rolled his eyes at Greg’s ruse. “I’m not taking directions from a frog.”

“We took directions from a bird.”

 _Fair point_. _Unfortunately._

Greg stopped twirling around, his feet taking a few extra steps to prevent the boy from falling over from dizziness. He opened his eyes. “Skip says we should go this way."

It was the same direction that Beatrice had suggested. Wirt crossed his arms over his chest and heaved a sigh. At least it was one of the more reasonable options he had considered. At this point, taking advice from a “frog” was as good as advice from a stubborn talking bluebird who then abandoned them. “Fine,” he said in defeat.

He wriggled his wrist out of the yarn loop and tuck the remaining yarn into his pocket.

* * *

Hours passed. The sun went upwards, its rays filtering in between the clouds and plethora of tree branches. Wirt kept a search out for anything that could be eaten. They managed to find another rose hip bush and pluck it barren, but it was likely the only one for miles. Greg pointed out another bush with smaller berries that resembled frosted red gumdrops, but Wirt was not going to risk poisoning himself or his half-brother when they were lost and desperately trying to make their way back home. Like before, they saved the uneaten rose hips for later.

Hopefully there would not be a later, though. According to Beatrice from the night before, they only needed to walk two more hours—but that was assuming Beatrice had been leading them in the right direction, and Wirt was certain that he and Greg had been walking for _more_ than two hours in the same path. The sun was almost directly above them—noon—and there was no grass clearing, no Garden Wall. Just trees and brush.

“Cursed is the day I trust anyone other than my own being,” Wirt mumbled under his breath. “Lost and wretched, I am wayward but determined.” It could be the beginning to one of his unwritten and unfinished poems; they always ended up crumpled on the floor and tossed into the garbage. 

Greg hummed the same tune over and over—a pleasant melody, optimistic but slow, old-fashioned.

“What song is that?”

“What song?”

“The one you’re humming.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“But you’ve been humming the same tune for weeks now. Do you know _where_ you heard it, at least?”

Greg shrugged his shoulders. “Nope!”

Wirt glanced off to the side in irritation, but let the subject drop. He _really_ wanted to go home, where he had clean clothes, access to toothpaste and a toothbrush, and food that did not solely consist of berries and nuts. As soon as he got home, he would take a long shower and scarf down the biggest bowl of spaghetti bolognaise he could get his hands on. Never again would he ever take indoor plumbing or electricity for granted.

More walking—this was getting ridiculous now.  “We seriously couldn’t have gone _that_ far away from the wall,” Wirt thought aloud. “I mean, _really_.”

“Beatrice and Harrison said we should go this way!”

“Harrison?”

“Skip’s name is Harrison now,” Greg responded in a tone that implied Wirt should have known better. They marched forward an extra few steps before the seven-year-old stopped in his tracks. “Do you smell that?”

Wirt shivered from the wind blowing from directly behind him, letting his cape flutter forward. Somehow, the day had grown colder. His teeth chattered. “Smell wh-what?”

“ _Smell!_ ” Greg ordered. On command, Wirt took a whiff of air. Greg was right—there _was_ a distinct odor wafting from somewhere ahead. Wirt was never a camper, but from the two middle school summers he spent at a summer camp, he recognized that scorching scent rather well. This was a good thing. It meant someone was ahead, and that someone could give them _real_ directions to the Garden Wall. Never had Wirt been so excited to _smell_ something before.

“C’mon Greg!” he said as he brushed past the little boy, bent on following the smoky source. He was practically running, with Greg and his multi-named frog behind him. Wirt anchored his hat with his hand as he moved swiftly through the trees.

One step forward, and the trees disappeared to make way for a pasture, with the trees lining the perimeter of the patchy grass. Off to the left was a house, a trail of smoke escaping the chimney.

“Wirt—” Greg panted as soon as he caught up with his older brother. But Wirt ignored this and headed to the front door of the house. He could hear an elderly woman’s voice chattering from the inside, but Wirt could not quite understand exactly what she was saying. The only word he heard clearly was “cage.”

He tapped his knuckles on the wooden door.

“What is it?” asked the voice he heard.

“Um, _hi_ ,” Wirt greeted nervously, “m-my half-brother and I are lost and we need directions to—”

“Come in, come in! Just close the door behind you as you enter.”

Wirt waited for Greg to catch up before opening the door to step into the cottage. He sealed the door shut to find what he had expected: an old woman with gray hair and wrinkles—and a house in complete disarray, with various objects strewn on the floor, an unmade bed, and spools of yarn strung about like Christmas lights. “And how can I help the two of you?” Her eyes settled on Wirt.

Wirt remained in place, but in the corner of his eye he saw Greg begin to wander around. “Well…we’re lost, and we’re just trying to make it back to the wall.”

The woman continued to stare at him. “The wall? You mean the _Garden_ Wall?”

“Yes.”

“You come from the other side, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Wirt repeated, this time wary. He heard a recurring thump from somewhere, but maybe it was his own heart pumping from intimidation. The woman was old and probably frail, but he sensed a disturbance within the cottage.

“Don’t you know that young men like yourself and your brother shouldn’t be playing on this side of the wall?” she lectured. “The Beast likes your kind.”

“Beast?”

But the woman did not respond. Instead, her attentions were on Greg. “Keep out of my things!” she scolded when Greg lifted the lid of a woven basket near the fireplace. But it was too late; an object rapidly darted out of the basket, but Wirt could not follow its path. 

“Wirt! Greg!”  

Wirt searched for the source of his name. It was a younger voice, a feminine one, a _familiar_ one.

“Beatrice!” Greg chimed.

“Go! Now!” the voice commanded from an unknown corner of the house’s sole room. Without even a second thought, Wirt turned on his heel and placed his hand on the doorknob, but a tightening sensation around his free arm impeded him from turning the knob. Wirt was pulled down to the floor, his hat flying off his head, the same coiling wrapping around the rest of his body save for his head. He realized it was circles and circles of different colors of yarn holding him down.

“Lemme go!” Greg exclaimed from behind Wirt. He was obviously in the same predicament.

“Friends of yours?” the woman asked, but to whom she was speaking, Wirt could not make out. Beatrice, maybe? With his arms pressed against his sides due to the yarn that tied him into a Technicolor cocoon, he managed to squirm his log-like stance so that he was not on his back, but on his stomach.

From his limited view, he saw the bluebird writhing in the woman’s grasp.

“Let them go,” Beatrice demanded. “You want me, not them! Just let them go!”

“Why would I do that?” the woman responded. “If I send them out in the woods, then the Beast will get them. No, it’s better if they stay with me. That way, I’ll have two servants _and_ a pet to keep my company in my old age. I’ll be doing them a favor.”

 _Great. I’m being made into child labor_ , thought Wirt nonchalantly, but his flippant mental remarks did not match with his nervous heartbeat and sweating skin. Wirt had always been uncertain about his future, but he knew he did not want to spend it with this deranged old woman. The yarn tautened around him even more, a very real and present reminder of the situation.

“Oh yes, it will be a good life for us,” the woman continued, moving towards the bed, stroking Beatrice’s head. The bird tried to avoid her nimble fingers, but to no avail.

“You _bitch_ ,” the bird snarled.

Wirt tried to sit up, but the yarn around him was too stiff for him to properly sit. He collapsed to his side, his head striking something that was not the floorboards, but something irregularly shaped, something metal. He let out a muffled groan before taking a peak at what his head had impacted. In the corner of the eye closest to the floor, he recognized two metal loops—not perfect circles, but more elliptical. That was not what his head hit—what he felt was slender and long, but hard.

 _Scissors_.

Maybe it was pure coincidence, but Wirt thanked that this woman was completely disorganized. And, at the moment, her strange fixation with Beatrice. She was saying words to the bird, but Wirt was too preoccupied to pay attention.

And maybe... _yes!_ Even though he was positive that his fingers had been cut off from circulation because of the yarn, he managed to slip his index finger in between the threads. He fidgeted his entire body closer to the scissors until he could hook his finger around one of its loops. No good. He would need a second. Getting another one of his fingers to escape the yarn trap was more challenging, but he managed it. He hooked one finger into each of the loops and pried the scissors open as far as they could go given the small amount of force from his fingers. Then _this_ was the really tricky part—actually cutting the yarn. He maneuvered once more so that the tip of one of the scissor blades stuck through the yarn and traveled down Wirt’s leg until the yarn hit the metal vertex. Once more, another squirm of the body, this one closing the scissors.

 _Snnnnnnnip_.

Not enough to completely free him, but enough for him to repeat the process—slowly, and with a few adjustments, like curling his legs closer to his chest—until the yarn from his lower hip to his feet was cut. His one hand was free, allowing for Wirt to properly hold onto the scissors. But he would have to be careful while cutting his torso loose from the yarn trap. Slow and steady, so as not to draw attention to himself while the woman spoke to Beatrice in a lovingly creepy manner. He felt the last of the yarn breaking apart, but he remained in the same position with the yarn draped over him, giving the impression that he was still cocooned underneath the yarn. He slightly tilted his head to see Greg, who was shimmying as much as the little boy could to loosen the yarn around him, but nothing worked.

Oh _crap_. Wirt did not have a plan after breaking himself loose. Was he supposed to discreetly break Greg free? No—the woman would see them. Was he supposed to ambush the woman so Beatrice could break loose? He did not know what good that would do any of them. What if he—

 _Clang!_ Wirt saw Greg’s kettle tumble onto the floor, the boisterous clash startling their captor. Her hands briefly opened, and Beatrice hurriedly fled from her. Out of reflex, Wirt jumped to feet and rushed to Greg with the scissors, hastily hacking away at the threads.

“You stupid little wretch!” the woman howled, her feet beginning to scurry towards the two brothers. _Snip_!The last of the yarn keeping Greg captive was broken apart, and the two brothers rushed to the door. Wirt shoved the scissors that freed him and Greg far into his pocket, his other hand fumbling with the doorknob. It would not budge.

“Oh no, not this time,” the woman cackled. “Leavng isn’t going to be that easy.” She lifted her hands, but then her attention was drawn to something else.

“No!” she screamed, scrambling towards her bed. Wirt tilted his head to watch her. She was heading for the window—the window which was now open and filling the house with a biting, icy, skin-puncturing draft. With each step the woman took, they became lethargic and heavy. The woman slumped over, struggling to reach the window. Wirt watched as she began to shrink in her own skin, determined to reach the window. Her hand reached out to close it, but dropped within mere seconds.

Before Wirt could even register it in his own mind, the woman crumbled into ashes upon her bed, with nothing but a pile of clothes left to show for her existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So despite this pretty stressful week of mine since the last update, I have charged through and updated! Long story short: it was finals week, I had one final and a French lit paper to write; my housing situation for next school year went down the toilet so my roommates and I were (are) scrambling to find another place, and on my way home, I was involved in a minor car crash.
> 
> Admittedly, this chapter was kind of a struggle to write because at first I had no idea how to finish it off. I wrote the first half before finals week, and introducing Adelaide was no issue, but I hit a rut with moving the plot forward. Then I made a rough outline for AOaY (especially since while writing this chapter I realized how I wanted the fic to end), and everything fell into place, more or less...until I wondered where exactly I should end this chapter. I decided to take what I originally had planned as the ending and make it the beginning for the next chapter. 
> 
> I will try to keep my updates as regular as possible since it is officially summer, but there might be a period where I won't update for a few weeks because I'll have family visiting from overseas. 
> 
> No poetic verses for this chapter, except for my own silly attempt ("Cursed is the day I trust anyone other than my own being. Lost and wretched, I am wayward but determined"). If anyone has any recommendations for poems that could be used, please let me know! My methods of searching usually include keyword searches in Google or the Poetry Foundation.


	7. Insufferable

Wirt deftly approached the pile of clothes on the bed, ashes still dripping out of the holes and cascading onto the floor. The scene he just witnessed was something out of a fairytale, but for some reason the name of one in particular was escaping his train of thought. He brought his hands up and tapped his index fingers together fretfully, not quite positive of what would happen next.

“ _You’re welcome_ ,” Beatrice’s acidic voice grumbled. Wirt looked up to see her perched on the edge of the windowsill, a piece of red yarn tied around and dangling from her bird leg, glaring at him with her black eyes. Could a bird shoot daggers with its eyes? Beatrice probably could, and she was expecting gratitude.

“So you opened the window?” Wirt inquired.

“I thought that was obvious,” Beatrice quipped.

“Did she melt?” This time it was Greg. Before the bird could respond, the boy gasped and began frantically searching around the room. “Where’s Harrison?!”

Wirt took it upon himself to fill in Beatrice. “Greg found a frog and named it Harrison.”

“Gotcha!” Greg uttered triumphantly, digging out the frog from the basket that once imprisoned Beatrice. He hugged him to his body. “After all of that, you can’t be named Harrison. Wirt, can you think of any other frog names?”

Wirt rolled his eyes and did not respond, instead redirecting his stare back to the bluebird at the windowsill. The window was still wide open, inviting in the blustery cold wind of which the woman had been so fearful. He pointed to the ashes and clothing. “So…she’s dead, right?”

The bird nodded. “Apparently cold wind will kill a witch. No wonder this place was burning up.”

“She was a _witch_?”

“Did the yarn traps not stir anything in that empty brain of yours?” Beatrice snapped. “Yeah, she was a witch. Adelaide. Trapped me and wanted to keep me as a replacement for the bluebird that I—that died a while back.”

Wirt took several steps away from the bed. Cremated by wind rather than fire. How…disturbingly morbid, and yet poetic. “So…you killed her?”

“Oh c’mon, Wirt! She was basically going to enslave us! Okay, yeah, I technically killed her, but at least we’re alive and not stuck in this stupid hell hole for eternity.”

Wirt sighed. Beatrice had a point; Adelaide did have unsavory plans for the three of them, and it was probably for the best that she was gone for good. But still, it felt… _wrong_. He closed his eyes. Maybe this dream was just _so_ elaborate and _so_ detailed, like watching a movie but actually _experiencing_ it and _feeling_ it, and he really would wake up this time, and he would be back in his room—

“What’re you doing?”

He opened his eyes. _Nope_ , the rationality of his mind declared for one last time. This was definitely reality. “I don’t…know.” He turned his back to Beatrice and the windowsill to face Greg hunched over something near the fireplace. Chewing sounds emanated from the little boy.

“Greg! Are you _eating her food_?”

“I’m hungry, Wirt!” Greg explained. “Look! She has some cheese and bread!” He bit into a plump wheat roll and offered a slab of creamy-white cheese to Wirt.

“Good call for the two of you,” Beatrice chirped from behind Wirt. “Can’t live off of rose hips and walnuts forever.”

Wirt threw his hands into the air, each of his palms facing Beatrice and Greg, respectively. “Hold up. We’re just going to ransack a dead witch’s house for food?”

“Well, you are. I’m not,” Beatrice corrected.

“Doesn’t that…bother you?”

“Nohpre,” Greg mumbled through a mouthful of bread before taking a second bite. Wirt turned to stare at the bird.

“What he said,” Beatrice lifted a wing to indicate she was pointing to Greg. “I mean, _really_ Wirt, you can’t think of morals at a time like this. You certainly didn’t when you tied me up and took me as an unwilling hostage.”

Wirt scoffed, ready to retort but unable to come up with the words. “I suppose I have to draw the line _somewhere_ ,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “This is all your fault, anyways.”

“ _My_ fault?!” Beatrice shrieked. “ _How is this my fault?!”_

“Let’s not forget that you _escaped_ ,” Wirt responded accusingly. “Which, by the way, _how_ did you do that? Didn’t you have a sprained wing? That couldn’t have taken you very far. How did you end up here?”

There was a long, pregnant pause before Beatrice attempted to answer. “I’m crafty.”

“That’s your excuse?”

“So I used my beak to break your yarn and then flew— _painfully_ , by the way—until I couldn’t anymore. Does that answer your question, you little shit?”

“Bad word! Bad word!” Greg chimed before nibbling on his cheese. Wirt and, by extension, Beatrice, ignored the boy. Her response answered _some_ things, but there were several glaring holes. It did not explain how she ended up inside Adelaide’s house, or how Adelaide even found her, and he was not quite sure how a bird could use its beak to rip apart yarn. But he chose to set aside these concerns for others.

“Also, you _promised_ you would help us get back to the wall, but you’ve only managed to get us _more_ lost and nearly _kidnapped_ by some deranged old woman,” Wirt accused. Heat rose to his face, but not out of embarrassment. It was rare for him to actually speak his mind, but his emotions always did bring out the thoughts he usually kept bottled away.

Beatrice fluttered down to the bed, right next to Adelaide’s clothing and ashes. “Oh _please_! _You_ were taking me against my own will! Did you really think I would stay with you the whole time and _not_ try to escape? You have too much faith in people. If anything, this is _your_ fault, Wart!”

Wirt exhaled, pretending that Beatrice unintentionally mispronounced his name. “So you were just leading us down some erroneous path so you could make an escape? Why didn’t you try the first night?”

“I was trying to get as close as I could to a town—Pottsfield. I figured I could fly there for the rest of the trip, but only if we got a certain distance close to it.” Beatrice hesitated. “I _was_ going to send someone to let you know how to get back to the wall, but I misjudged just how far Pottsfield is. Turned out I didn’t even know where I was going.”

“So we’re even more lost than we thought,” Wirt groaned, bringing his face into his palms. “Just _great_.” Gone for three days already; well, technically two nights and two days, but the third night was fast approaching, and Wirt could imagine his mother and Greg’s father worrying about him and Greg, and the town buzzing with theories that they had been taken and murdered. “This is _just great_.”

“Hey, I just saved your lives!” Beatrice barked. “You could at least be grateful for _that.”_

Wirt scoffed at this, but Greg reacted differently. “Thanks Beatrice!” he acknowledged merrily.

“Well now what?” Wirt thought aloud. He nearly took a seat on the bed, but caught himself as soon as he remembered that a dead witch’s ashes and clothing were piled on top of the messy sheets.

Greg, finished eating the food he found, looked at the frog in his hands. “What do you think, Thomas Jefferson?”

“Look, I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you, I _really_ am,” Beatrice began, “but you can’t blame me for this. For _any_ of this. I have my own agenda, and if I didn’t, I’d help you—no strings attached.” She chuckled. _Hey Sara, birds can not only talk on the other side of the Garden Wall, but they can chuckle_. “Pun unintended.”

“So you’re not going to help us anymore—that’s what I’m taking out of this conversation.”

“Escape being Adelaide’s unwilling pet to become your _girlfriend’s_ pet? Maybe I can find someone who can guide you back, but I’m not really that person—or bird.”

Wirt slumped his shoulders. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he rectified dejectedly. “And I _was_ going to let you go after I showed you off to her.”

“Wait, really?”

Wirt nodded. “Well, maybe not at first, but I considered it last night. Just, you know, let you talk for a little bit and then take you back to the wall so you could fly away forever.” He stared at Beatrice. “She wouldn’t want to keep a bird with the mouth and attitude of a sailor as a pet.”

“ _Ha ha_ ,” Beatrice said sarcastically. “That’s a better option, but still kind of demeaning. You’re basically turning me into a freak show. I _am_ a sentient being, in case you haven’t noticed. Even if I couldn’t talk, that wouldn’t be fair to me.”

Wirt refrained from another rolling of his eyes. “Well, I guess there’s no point in having that yarn around your leg anymore,” he said in defeat. He reached into his pocket for the life-saving scissors and approached the bird. “C’mon, I’ll cut that off for you.”

“Wait—” Beatrice said brusquely. “Where did you get those scissors?”

He pointed to the section of the floor where he had been trapped; the yarn that made him limbless was still strewn across that area. “She just had these lying on the floor, almost like it was meant for me to use them.”

“I—I need those.”

Wirt raised an eyebrow. “What does a bird need with scissors?”

“That’s…none of your business.”

Wirt pulled his hand away, the scissors alarmingly close to his chin. “Tell me why you need them, and _then_ I’ll give them to you.”

“No! Like I said, it’s _none of your goddamn business_.”

In truth, Wirt did not particularly care for what a talking bluebird would need a pair of scissors, even if the request was _odd_ on multiple levels ( _how_ would she be able to even handle them in the first place). He examined them—they were designed to resemble another type of bird, like a crane, or stork. He eyed Beatrice, her little black eyes fixated upon the silver contraption he held. And there was a sense of urgency in her voice, an anticipation and bewilderment. These were valuable scissors, valuable to Beatrice, at least.

They were leverage.

“I’ll give you these scissors—”

“ _Oh no_.”

“But only if and _after_ you help Greg and I get back to the Garden Wall.”

“And see Sara.”

Her voice was monotone and under breath. “ _Fuck_.”

Wirt smirked, proud of the ultimatum he concocted. He waited several seconds before the rest of her response.

“Okay, _fine_!” Beatrice hollered, spreading her wings as if they were arms going up above her head, a signal of defeat. “We have a deal. I’ll _actually_ help the two of you return, but as soon as I put on a show for your intended, I take those scissors and we never speak to each other again. Does that work for you?”

The teenager nodded. “Absolutely.” He tucked the scissors back into his pocket.

“Hooray! _Beatrice is back and we’re on our way home today_!” Greg sang, twirling his frog around as if it were dancing marionette doll. The frog was unamused but apathetic, and made a loud croak as his only reaction.

“But if I’m going to help you, this means no more of your yarn, okay?” Beatrice commanded. “The only good thing that Adelaide did was fix my wing, so I can fly up and check out for anything ahead.”

Wirt agreed, albeit reluctantly. “Fair enough.”

“And if I suggest something, you better follow it,” she continued. “I know these parts better than you do, and if I ever get an inkling of doubt or arguing from you, then I’ll just steal those scissors from you and you’ll be left to fend for yourself.”

Wirt lifted his index finger in retort. “Objection. That’s not fair to our deal at all. These scissors are my insurance that we _do_ get back and see Sara.”

“There’s nothing stopping me from taking them when you’re asleep,” Beatrice offered in defense.

“True.” Wirt pulled out his own red yarn and the scissors. “That’s why I’m tying them up and hooking them to my trousers.” He cut a small section of yarn and pulled it through both of the scissor loops and knotted the ends together so that the blades could not open. He then took the rest of the yarn and secured a knot around one of his trousers’ belt loops and another around a scissor loop. He tucked the scissors back into his pocket, a line of red tracing the path from belt loop and disappearing into the pocket.

“I can just use my beak to cut that,” Beatrice remarked.

“You’d have to get awfully close to me, and I’m pretty sure I’ll feel it this time.”

Wirt swore he heard Beatrice sigh. “ _Okay_ then. Are the terms set?”

“Strings attached at all. Pun intended.”

Greg took it upon himself to raid whatever foodstuffs he could find in Adelaide’s now-vacant home. Wirt begrudgingly allowed for Greg to do this, as long as the boy stopped using his pants as storage. Greg used the basket that Beatrice had been hidden in until Greg accidentally unleashed her; he filled the basket with the last of the wheat rolls and cheese, in addition to some cured dried meats, the morning’s inventory of rose hips, and the remaining black walnut clusters from the day prior. It was not much, but it was not as if they were going out on a picnic. This was survival food. Adelaide had a jar of water tucked out of the way near the fireplace; after taking turns drinking it, Wirt placed the empty jar into the basket in case they found any more sources of drinking water.

“So, do you have _any_ idea of where the Garden Wall would be?” Wirt asked Beatrice. “Considering you didn’t know where this town was and all…”

“Are you going to rub that in my face all the time, or do you want me to actually help you?”

“Just…needed to get it out now,” Wirt responded guiltily, but not remorsefully.

Beatrice disregarded this. “Adelaide said that Pottsfield was about ten miles to the east, and judging by where the sun is right now, we’re facing south. That means we’d have to turn left to go to Pottsfield, which is the closest town to the Garden Wall.”

“So…we should turn right if we want to go to the wall,” Wirt gathered.

“I concur with that statement!” Greg added triumphantly. “So does Thomas Jefferson!”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Beatrice continued. “It’s plausible, but it only really works if we’re walking parallel to the wall, as if the wall goes north and south.” She paused briefly. “Hang on, I’m going to fly up and see if maybe there is something that can help us.”

She exited through the open window. Wirt, Greg, and Thomas Jefferson the Frog waited for her. Wirt munched on Adelaide’s dried meat sticks, his morals vanished once he bit into the snack. The action was half to pass the time, half because he was hungry and could no longer be burdened by the metaphorical line he drew earlier.

Wirt had just finished the meat stick when Beatrice returned through the window. “So I have bad news…and neutral news. I didn’t see the Garden Wall. At all. Just trees.”

“And the neutral news?”

“I saw a smoke trail about twenty miles away to the west. If we left now, we could make that by tomorrow evening, and that accounts for taking the night to sleep.”

Wirt moaned. “What about Pottsfield?”

“I saw something that looked like a clearing to the east which _could_ be Pottsfield, but if our estimations are correct, then going to Pottsfield would be completely out of the way, and I don’t think either of us want to be around each other for too long.”

“Hey, do you see any yarn around your leg?”

Wirt spoke too soon, remembering that the previous yarn knot was still attached to her. Beatrice did not have to say anything. “Oh, you know what I mean. Do you want me to cut that off for you?”

“If you want,” Beatrice responded indifferently.

Wirt removed the scissors from his pocket and carefully cut away the circle around her bird leg. He tucked the yarn piece into his other pocket, and the scissors back into its designated pocket.

“Thomas Jefferson and I were wondering if you saw any coconuts?” Greg asked.

“Um…no,” Beatrice replied. “What do you need coconuts for?”

“Coconuts have milk, and I feel like some milk. _Duh._ ”

“Just ignore him,” Wirt mumbled under his breath.

* * *

They left Adelaide’s home about ten minutes later, with one last survey of what items they could take on their journey. Despite the amount of loose objects scattered around the room, there was nothing that would have been of much use to them, or items that were too large for the boys to carry through the forest. Greg took on the duty of Mighty Basket Carrier, the paltry food basket in one hand. His frog was perched upon his shoulder, uncaring for the world around him. Wirt picked up his hat and placed it atop his head.

It was mid-afternoon (at most, four o’clock p.m.); despite the sun’s beginning descent and the array of clouds streamed about the blue canvas, there was enough light for them to charge forward for about six or seven miles until it would get too dark for them to endure. So as not to tire herself out, Beatrice sat perched on Wirt’s shoulder. Greg, and his frog, walked ahead of them, chanting cutesy songs about being in the woods.

Just in the short amount of time that she had known the brothers, Beatrice made several observations. Greg was an optimistic, cheery bugger; he could pay attention rather well in comparison to most children his age, but he was _energetic_ , and _talkative,_ and _enthusiastic,_ and _friendly._ If it was not for his frequent jumping and dancing, Beatrice would abandon Wirt’s shoulder for Greg’s. At least Wirt was a steady walker. And did Greg even care that he and his brother were lost? He probably did, but maybe it did not register as something to panic over, probably due to his age. He went about as if wandering around in the woods was play time.

Wirt, on the other hand, was a typical adolescent boy. He was quiet and reserved, but his moodiness, stubborn attitude, and _constant_ complaining made him far less pleasurable company than his younger brother. He was justified in being anxious over his being lost, Beatrice knew that, but she could not help that it came across as annoying, with his groans and impatience--and stubborn belief that he was not in the wrong.  And what was his deal with this girl? Beatrice was still unclear with all of that.

“So, her name is Sara?” Beatrice internally smiled at her own mischievousness.

“H-how do you know that?” Wirt trembled, his face and the tips of his ears becoming a rosy shade of pink.

“You told me when we made the deal. Remember? ‘And see Sara.’” Beatrice informed.

“Oh, right,” Wirt said softly.

“And you aren’t courting her?”

“Courting?”

Beatrice was about to fill in Wirt on the definition of _courting_ , but he caught on. “Oh, you mean dating. No, we aren’t dating, but we are friends.” He added rather wistfully, “Sort-of.”

“And why do you need me to be a part of this?”

“Because I _want_ to date her, or court her,” Wirt responded.

If Beatrice could raise an eyebrow at that moment, she would have. “I don’t follow. In order for you to court Sara, she asked for you to—”

“She doesn’t know I’m here,” Wirt interrupted. “She didn’t ask for me to cross the wall and bring her something in return. I just did it myself. She’s tried it before—going over, I mean—but she never did, and she wants to know what it’s like. So, I guess I would do it for her. Bring her back something.”

A light clicked on in Beatrice’s brain. “And I’m that token because I can talk. Okay, I understand that now. What I don’t understand is why you think you have to _prove_ your love for her.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything!” Wirt rejected. “I just want to talk to her about something.”

“You couldn’t think of _anything_ to say to her, so you had to jump across a wall to do it?”

Wirt huffed. “I don’t expect you to _get_ it. You’re a bird, and I highly doubt that birds feel in the same way that humans do.”

Beatrice had to bite her tongue. _Play along, Beatrice, just play along._

“You mean emotions like love.”

“Or something close to it, yeah.”

The bird looked off to the side, not that Wirt could see this. “I know about it. I like people-watching. I can’t say that I’ve experienced it, though.”

That was an honest answer.

Beatrice waited a few seconds before continuing. “Okay, so maybe you aren’t trying to prove something to _Sara_ ,” she began to speculate, “but maybe you are trying to prove something to yourself?”

“Since when do birds psychoanalyze humans?” Wirt chided.

“You can’t ask a question in response to a question,” Beatrice returned.

“Why would I prove anything to myself? Are you saying that I crossed the wall for my own reasons other than to get something for Sara? Like, as in this is some kind of self-fulfillment journey? That’s…that’s—I wasn’t _really_ going to cross the wall. I thought about it, but then I realized how stupid it was. But I did it anyways. And now I’m here, okay? I was just curious, and I figured I can go ahead and follow through on something for once.”

An awkward pause. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I just admitted that this is a ‘find-myself’ thing. I didn’t. It’s not like that. I just said—”

“You don’t have to clarify yourself,” Beatrice interjected.

Beatrice heard Wirt give one of his signature profound exhales. “Though I am lost, my wounded heart resides back home in pieces, strewn across the graveyard of my lost love,” he murmured to no one in particular. The way he said the words sounded rhythmic, brooding, and pensive, as if it were a recitation from a schoolbook, or a Shakespearian play.

“Is that…poetry?”

“Did—did you just hear that?”

“Yes!” Greg answered for Beatrice. Beatrice enjoyed it.

“Is that another poet, or your own?”

“My own.” He was embarrassed—she could hear the timid reluctance with those two words mixed with curt honesty.

“Well, that certainly explains a lot.”

“Wait—about what?”

Beatrice looked up to see Wirt’s face turned and glaring down at her, brows lowered, awaiting for an answer. She blinked her little black eyes at him. “About you, of course. You’re one of those literary dreamer types.”

She watched as Wirt opened his mouth to comment, but no words came out for several seconds. “You say that like it’s an insult. I feel insulted.”

“It’s not an _insult_ ,” Beatrice emphasized, “but it explains your incessant whining.”

“I don’t whine!”

“And it also explains why you think crossing the Garden Wall will impress Sara. You’re a hopeless romantic, but you’re also a cynic. It’s a weird conundrum that exists only in you poetic literary types. Dream, dream, dream, but observe, and criticize, and don’t get your hopes _too_ high. You like holding onto dreams because they are dreams, but you don’t really see them coming to fruition, so you just kind of laze around and blame the universe for your problems.”

Wirt’s expression read complete confusion. “That’s—you—I—you’re a _talking bluebird_! How the hell do you come up with all of this—which is _not true_ , by the way.”

“I like people watching.” She quickly changed the subject. “What other dorky pursuits do you have?”

“Poetry isn’t dorky—”

“ _Your_ poetry is super dorky!” Greg teased from over his shoulder. “It’s all, ‘Life is bad and I am unhappy and I want to kiss a girl.’”

Beatrice caught sight of Wirt blushing once more. She was not about to ask him why he was so ashamed about admitting that he composed his own poetic verses. Half of it was because the boy was already embarrassed to his wits end, and she was trying to show _some_ mercy for him, especially when he was currently in possession of the scissors she needed (not that he needed to know why, nor would he find out). But half of it was also because she was genuinely curious about what Wirt did with all his adolescent angst. Poetry was almost too much of a cliché for her to let go of the subject. “No, really, what else do you do?”

“I play clarinet.”

“In an orchestra?”

“No. Just in my room.”

“Oh. How lonely.”

“It’s not lonely.”

“Isn’t music supposed to be shared with others? Why do you keep it to yourself?”

Wirt adjusted his gaze so that he was no longer looking down at her. Beatrice wondered if she hit a nerve. “I just don’t, okay? I don’t want people hearing what I’m playing. It’s too humiliating.”

_Wow. You’re a pitiful sad sack._

“Your clarinet is nice!” Greg assured from the front. “I like listening to it when I’m playing in my room.”

“See, Greg likes it!” Beatrice supported.

“That’s _Greg_ , it’s not like he really matters,” Wirt shrugged off, his voice inaudible to his brother a yard or two ahead of them. “Can we stop talking about me and talk about something else?” he asked, clearly eager to change the subject.

Beatrice knew where this was heading; she had been expecting it fully. “If you think this is the part where I start sharing _my_ insecurities and deep dark secrets, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“But—”

“Nope. Sorry. I’m just a bluebird. I go where the wind takes me.”

“That’s not fair. I just shared some stuff, stuff that no one else really knows about, and now—”

“ _Nope!_ ” Beatrice interrupted forcefully, flying off of Wirt’s shoulder and zooming to ahead of Greg. She had enough of Wirt for the day.

* * *

The two boys walked for roughly seven miles before nighttime grasped a hold of the sky. They settled against a barely-leafed oak tree, and ate some of the food inside the pilfered basket. As they munched on leftover wild fruits and Adelaide’s cheese, Beatrice searched for her own sustenance; she found some mealworms underneath a few mossy rocks a few paces from where Wirt and Greg had set up “camp.”

 _Stupid mealworms_ , Beatrice thought. _At least I can have real food tomorrow night._

And then _—shit!_

She forgot to factor her predicament into the deal with Wirt.

Beatrice spewed out more profanities in her mind (a range of the softest curses to the more “unladylike” words), afraid that if she yelled them out loud, Wirt and Greg would hear her and want to know what was wrong. It would mean another verbal lie; at the moment, Beatrice could barely keep track of all the cover-ups she had said to them.

It was guaranteed that they would not reach the wall before tomorrow night. Tonight she was safe, but how was she going to hide her transformation from them tomorrow? Hope that they fell asleep before her temporary conversion? That could work with Wirt, who managed to fall asleep within less than thirty minutes. Greg, however, was a light sleeper from what Beatrice gathered from the previous two nights. He had not woken up during the metamorphosis last night, but what if he did tomorrow night? Or what if he was not sleeping at all by the time Beatrice changed. Would she have to flee from them for the night? That would risk breaking her agreement—and she _needed_ those scissors.

She would have to worry about it when the time came.

Beatrice retreated back to Wirt and Greg. The oldest boy was already on his side, his back to Greg, indicating that he was not to be disturbed.

“Aren’t you cold?” Beatrice asked the younger boy when the wind ruffled past.

“Not really,” Greg answered nonchalantly. “What do you think of the name ‘Daisy?’”

“For the frog?”

“Of course!”

Beatrice played along. “It’s pretty.”

“Okay. Then Thomas Jefferson is now Daisy!”

The bluebird laughed at this; a frog named Daisy was too ridiculous, but it made Greg happy. And chances were that the name would change in the morning anyways. Her eyes then darted to the sleeping Wirt, his cape wrapped around his body and the red cone hat placed on the ground in front of him.

“Your brother is…” she trailed off in search of the right word to use, one that was accurate but easy for Greg to understand. “He’s insufferable.”  

Maybe that was _not_ the best word. “Wirt’s not insufflable!” Greg defended, stumbling upon ‘insufferable.’ “He can be a grumpy-grump, but he’s Wirt!”

Beatrice wondered for how long Greg had been saying that to himself. Beatrice recognized Greg’s admiration for his older brother; she saw it in her own siblings. But to Wirt, Greg was an afterthought. Greg could be hyperactive and reckless, but it was typical of all young children. And unlike Wirt, he was _approachable_.

“Greg, are you good at keeping secrets?”

“Absolutely! I once threw away my toothbrush by accident, so I—” he was cut short by a sudden burst of coughing, but once he finished, he pressed on as if nothing had phased him. “I had to use Wirt’s for a few days, and I never told him.”

“That’s _having_ a secret. Are you good at keeping others’ secrets?”

“If I told you, wouldn’t that be breaking a secret?”

Beatrice wished she could physically smile. “I guess it would.”

* * *

The man held his lantern up to an Edelwood tree. A rich black liquid dripped from the bark’s crevices and branches. It was one of the more recent trees to have sprouted in the last twenty years, and one of the few that had not been touched yet, the oil inside building up until it was overflowing. He opened the lantern and pressed the opened case to the tree trunk; a trail of oil sluggishly filtered into the flame.

“I see you’ve found one of the untapped.”

The man nodded in response, but said nothing.

“She’s back with them, the bird-girl,” the shadow added, “I was certain that she would not return, but it appears as though they stumbled upon her and have rejoined. It will be a challenge with her, but nothing that cannot be done.” It waited for several seconds. “You have nothing to say, Woodsman?”

“No.”

“I cannot decide if this is good or bad. But I will need the lantern soon.”

A shiver jolted up the man’s spine. He turned to face the shadowy figure, which stood several yards away, practically hidden behind other trees. “When?”

“Within the next few days. It’s difficult to gauge when exactly, but I felt the underlings happen today. It’s just beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fun chapter to write! I really enjoyed writing the banter between Wirt & Beatrice, so I hope that it comes across well. Also, a big thank you to Pixiestick_cc for volunteering to be my beta! I've never had a beta before and she is an incredible writer (if you have not read "If You're Lonely, Press Play" then make that a priority).
> 
> Poetry credit: The one and only OTGW (from the first episode, "The Old Grist Mill")! I definitely want to incorporate the rest of Wirt's poetry into this fic, so keep a look out.


	8. Rain

“It’s going to rain later.”

Wirt glanced up to the sky. There was no trace of sunlight, just a monotonous repetition of gray that hid away the blue, making the already chilly day even less inviting. Wirt was prepared to groan, but made a conscious decision not to do so; he was not going to give Beatrice more fodder to think he was whiny. Instead, he pretended to be apathetic to the situation. Never mind that he and Greg had been over the Garden Wall for nearly four days now. Never mind the pile of homework stacking up for him at school. Never mind that Jason Funderberker was probably using Wirt’s absence as a means of getting closer to Sara (and what hypothetically poor taste, Jason Funderberker). Never mind that his mother was most definitely stressing to the max with his sick grandmother and two missing children. Never mind any of it because Wirt was _completely_ calm, cool, and collected.

A genderless voice rang through his brain. _Why in such a rush to go back?_ It was not his. He could not even call it his conscience. He had heard this voice before, and fairly recently, too—but from where? And what was this voice permeating throughout his mind? Was that even possible? Then again, this unknown world had talking bluebirds and witches who could die from the wind. At this point, Wirt could no longer take what was thrown at him with a grain of salt. No wonder the Garden Wall separated this magical place from his town.

“That only means we must go _onward_!” Greg exclaimed, running ahead of Wirt and Beatrice. The food basket in his hand flagged behind him, while the frog in his other gave off a frightened expression. “We must charge as far as we can before the storm hits!”

“He’s actually right,” Beatrice stated. “A storm is approaching fast. I can feel and smell it in the air.”

Wirt could not help himself. “That’s something a bird can do?”

“That’s something _anyone_ can do,” Beatrice countered. “Well, anyone who doesn’t stay inside writing corny poetry all the time.”

“I was kidding,” Wirt meekly answered.

The two boys had woken up at late dawn, but they would not have known that because of the gray sheet of clouds covering the sky. After their measly breakfast of a bread roll and a rose hip each, Beatrice urged that they start walking if they wanted to reach by evening whatever she had seen from above at Adelaide’s cottage the previous day. Now, the foreboding threat of a storm quickened their pace. Wirt was rather fond of the rain, but only if it was summer, and he was inside, curled underneath his blanket, and playing his clarinet. Walking around in cold, soaked clothing that stuck to skin when there was a chill in the air was not an experience he enjoyed.  

So they trudged forward. The first leg of the day’s journey was quiet, save for Greg’s singing and humming. Beatrice alternated between sitting on Wirt’s shoulder, flying ahead of Greg, or heading up to the top of the tree canopies to judge their distance from the smoke stream she saw yesterday.

“We should steer a little to the left, or else we’ll pass right by it,” she said after returning from her third survey.

“Okay,” Wirt acknowledged, shifting his direction more to the left.

“Whoa, you’re just going to take my word for it?”

“Why would you lie?”

“The first day I led you completely away from the wall, and you didn’t even know it. What if I’m doing it again?”

Wirt shrugged. “I don’t think you would, not when I have insurance.” He patted the pocket that held her coveted scissors and smirked. He could feel Beatrice’s scowl upon him.

“Well obviously I’m not intentionally driving you off the path, but what if it was someone else—another bird? Would you blindly listen to them, too? You’re kind of a pushover, Wirt. A passive aggressive pushover.”

Wirt snorted. _"T_ _hanks_ ,” he answered sarcastically. He then lowered his head so that his eyes only saw the ground in front of him. “We are but wayward leaves, scattered to the air by an indifferent wind,” he narrated quietly so that neither Greg nor Beatrice could hear his poetry. He had enough of their teasing from yesterday, and was not in the mood to endure it again.

Unfortunately, he was not quiet enough. “Oh, quit with the moody angst. It doesn’t help your case,” Beatrice grumbled. She then flew ahead of him and Greg, indicating that she did not want to hang around him for the time being. Fine with me, Wirt thought. For a bluebird, Beatrice was judgmental and kind of a bully— _wait, what if all bluebirds are like that, talking or not?_ Although, he noticed that she did not act that way around Greg. Was it because he was seven years old, or did she just _really_ not like Wirt? Whatever—if the latter was true (and it most likely was), then the feeling was _undeniably_ mutual.

An hour or so later, Greg determined it was time to take a break from walking and eat lunch. Wirt ate some of Adelaide’s cheese, which was beginning to crust at the edges from exposure, but was otherwise still edible. He nibbled at one of the last black walnuts from the first full day spent in the woods. His stomach pleaded for more food, but he had to conserve their stock—even Greg knew that. The little boy ate another one of the rolls and two rose hips.

“Did you see any water anywhere?” Wirt asked Beatrice once she returned from hunting her own meal.

“No, but I found some autumn olives that can be picked.”

She led them to a large bush that resembled one Wirt had seen yesterday—the berries were small and red, flecked with silver flakes. “And these are edible?”

“Stop doubting me.”

“I’m a pushover if I accept whatever you say, but if I doubt you, then I’m difficult. There’s no winning with you, is there?”

Greg was the first to pluck one of the autumn olives from the bush and pop it into his mouth. “Mmm!”

“Looks like they’re fully ripe, too,” Beatrice added.

They ate several of the autumn olives—a slight tartness to the otherwise sweet flavor, Wirt decided—and placed more in the basket. The effort that went into breaking off just a piece of the autumn olive branch made Wirt and Greg sweat, but once it went inside the basket and the lid closed over it, Wirt wiped his forehead in satisfaction. The opportunity to stock up on more food was worth the struggle to remove smaller clusters from the mega-cluster. And the berries were rather tasty. Beatrice could be mean, but at least she was not trying to kill them.

Hopefully.

The second leg of their day’s journey was more active than the first. Instead of his songs and hums, Greg began a winded story about how he once fought away backyard monsters. Wirt remembered that day—it was back in the late spring, just before the summer heat washed over, and Greg was convinced that there were monsters digging holes underneath the fence and in the backyard. If Wirt recollected correctly, it had actually been one of their next-door neighbor’s new puppy who had a penchant for digging.

“…and so I set up a trap for the monster, and waited behind one of Mom’s rose bushes so that when the monster stopped, boom! I could trap him!”

“And did you?” Beatrice asked.

“Of course! I waited for a long time, though, and I almost gave up. But then I remembered that I can do anything if I set my mind to it, and I set my mind on catching the monster, so I waited even longer!”

The boy coughed before continuing his story. “Then I saw the monster in our backyard, and he stopped at my trap, and I pounced on him!”

“Did you scare him off?”

“We wrestled and he was a fighter—”

_You were playing with it. That is literally all you were doing, Greg._

“—but I won in the end, and he hasn’t been back since.”

_Yeah because Mrs. Curtis trained him to not dig any more holes once Mom finally complained about it._

“What about you?”

Wirt was snapped back to reality. “Hmm?”

“Any valiant stories of your own?” Beatrice asked.

“More valiant than wrestling with a puppy? No, all I do is sit in my room writing angsty poetry and playing the somber clarinet, remember?” he responded dryly.

“Of course, why bother asking a nerd like you?” Beatrice shot back.

Her words were clearly meant to be some kind of light-hearted jab, but her tone read callously.

“Wirt, tell her about that time you saved us from a fire!”

Wirt groaned.

“You saved your family from a fire?”

“It was so cool!” Greg jumped in. “There were these _biiiiig_ flames in the kitchen, and Wirt—”

“Okay, no, that’s not how it happened,” Wirt interrupted. “There weren’t any flames, there was just some smoke because of some malfunction in the stove, and I thought it was a fire, so I told our mom. Then John took care of it. That’s literally it.”

“We could’ve _died_!” Greg added dramatically.

Wirt shook his head. “No, it wasn’t even the start to a fire.”

Beatrice sounded disappointed. “I think I would’ve preferred Greg’s version.” She hesitated. “Who is John?”

“My step-dad, Greg’s dad.”

“Oh, you two are half-brothers.”

“We’re full brothers in spirit!” Greg yawped while Wirt merely nodded.

* * *

“We’re really close!” Wirt heard Beatrice holler from her position in the darkening sky. She swooped down to rejoin him and Greg, landing on his shoulder. The rush that followed her nearly knocked off Wirt’s hat; he reflexively brought his hand up so he could catch it before it tumbled to the ground before them. “And good timing, too—I felt a few raindrops when I was up there. Maybe about another ten minutes or so in the same direction and we can be knocking on doors, asking for the way to the wall.”

“Provided that there are no witches intending to keep us forever,” Wirt reminded her. He assumed that Beatrice was seething, but he reveled in the opportunity to make such a comment to her.

They walked further along, rain beginning to fall in heavy, wet droplets. Wirt tried his best to ignore the rainfall, and it was not until the three travelers found the smoke trail’s source that the rain droplets became plumper nuisances. Several yards in front of them was a house larger than Adelaide’s cottage, with two stories and even a building attached to it, presumably a stable. At their distance, Wirt heard music playing from the inside.

“It looks like a tavern,” Wirt commented, more for his own assurance than informing Greg or Beatrice.

“Well let’s stop gawking at it and go ask for directions,” Beatrice pushed matter-of-factly.

They approached the tavern door and entered. A fire roared in the back, warming them up as soon as they stepped inside. Following Greg to an empty wooden table, Wirt examined the crowd: not sparse, but not busy, either. All of the patrons were at least in their thirties, but many of them were older, each with a drink on their tables. At the front, a couple of men with instruments played delicate, almost melancholy, music.

So, there was some semblance of civilization on the other side of the Garden Wall. Even though they had come across Adelaide, and that Beatrice admitted to watching people and mentioned a town, it was only until he stepped into the tavern when Wirt registered that people actually lived here. But the patrons wore clothing that resembled costume dramas and historical reenactments, and Wirt noticed that there were no electric lights. Oil lanterns and wax candles illuminated the tavern. This journey was beginning to resemble an old-fashioned fairytale.

Greg sharply gasped. “Food!” He dropped the basket and frog at the table. Wirt’s eyes followed his half-brother’s hurried steps to a long table near the fireplace decked with plates of various dishes. Immediately, Greg began piling items on one of the plates: glazed ham, corn on the cob, baked apples sprinkled with cinnamon, even steamed broccoli (one of Greg’s least favorite vegetables). Seeing and smelling the hot meal made Wirt’s stomach gurgle and bubble loudly, a pressing reminder of the little food he had eaten in the past few days.

But before he could follow Greg suit, he heard Beatrice’s voice in his ear. “Lift your hat.”

“What? Why?”

“So I can hide underneath it. I don’t think I’m supposed to be in here—I keep getting dirty looks as if I’m a bad omen or something. _Pricks_.”

Wirt did as he was told. “Pushover,” Beatrice smirked softly as she nestled herself in his hair. Wirt frowned at that, securing the hat back on his head. Bluebirds were not particularly heavy, but Beatrice’s weight was an odd sensation, especially when pressed against his unwashed mop of hair. He strode to the table of food, where Greg was having difficulty deciding between vanilla custard or bread pudding for a dessert. He opted for the bread pudding before speed walking back to their designated table and digging in. Wirt attempted to restrain himself from doing the same, but by the time he reached his seat, he was also scarfing down the food he assembled for himself. Maybe it was because he spent the last few days eating foraged (and stolen) food, but this was one of the most delicious meals he had ever eaten.

“Would you fellows like anything to drink?” asked a stout woman who had approached their table. Greg was too preoccupied with chewing, but Wirt requested for two glasses of water.

“When she comes back, ask for directions,” Beatrice demanded from underneath his hat.

“You don’t need to remind me,” Wirt muttered.

The woman returned with two glasses of water. Wirt downed his within a few seconds, relishing every drop. “What are two young boys doing out in these parts at sundown, and with a storm on the way?” she pried.

“Well, we’re trying to find our way home,” Wirt explained. “You see, we live over this wall, and—”

The woman’s eyes grew wide. “The Garden Wall?” Her voice was emphatic and, unfortunately, drew the attention of other patrons. “The two of you come from over there?”

“Yup!” Greg confirmed after swallowing his forkful of ham.

“And how long have you been in the woods now?”

“We’re going into our fourth night,” Wirt answered. Hushed muttering amongst the fellow customers were shared, but he could not quite hear what was being said. “Look, we just want to get back, but we’re kind of lost, so if we could have some directions, that’d be appreciated.”

“Oh, you won’t be going out tonight,” the woman rejected. “It’s nighttime, and the storm brewing outside is a nasty one. No, it’s better if you stay here for the night. There’s a room upstairs—”

“We don’t have any money,” Wirt replied, realizing that he also had no money to pay for the food he and Greg were still consuming. More stealing.

A male voice from across the room called out. “Don’t worry, my boy, we’ll cover it for you. It’s the least we can do for two lost boys from over the wall.”

Actually, the least they could do was give directions. “Oh, um…thanks,” he answered, unsure if he was going to take up the offer. A free meal and the chance to sleep in a real bed out of the rain was far too tempting, but he could not quite accept it yet. “How far are we from the wall, by the way?”

“Probably about forty miles or so. But you’re in the right direction.”

"Forty?” By foot, that was another four days at minimum. There were already so many strange and illogical occurrences that Wirt could not even begin to fathom (a talking bluebird, for starters), and the geography of these woods was no exception. How far did he and Greg accidentally wander that first night? How far had Beatrice steered them away from the wall in hopes that she could get to the nearest village? How did any of that end up with them being forty miles away from the Garden Wall? How did he manage any of that by foot? How was any of this not a dream?

The woman did not appear to share his concern. “I’ll get your room ready. In the meantime, just enjoy the music and being dry.”

“But—”

She held up a hand to silence him. “On behalf of all of us, I _insist_ , young man. I’ll make sure someone in here pays for your meal and room.”

Wirt sighed.

“We can’t stay here,” Beatrice mumbled once the woman left. Wirt sunk in his chair. He could hear the rain outside, beating heavily against the tavern walls—and was that thunder rumbling the distance? If he was going to spend several more nights over the wall, then he wanted to spend one of those nights in a real, dry bed ( _Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain/On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me…_ ). At this point, he was not going to object to a free meal and the opportunity to sleep in a bed rather than against a tree.

And, maybe it provided an opportunity to annoy the bird resting in his hair.

“But she told me to stay. I guess we have to abide by their wishes, especially with all that rain outside.”

“Wirt—”

“After all, I’m such a pushover.”

“ _God dammit Wirt_ ,” the bird hissed. He wished she could see his mischievous grin.

Proud of himself, Wirt ate his bread pudding, listening to the musicians play their instruments. Greg tapped his foot to the melody, bouncing his frog up and down.  So it was a setback to the journey home, but at least they were inside, they had eaten a real meal, and there was music to be heard. Wirt wondered if there was some kind of wash basin in the room so he could attempt to clean himself. That would make the night exponentially better.

Several of the patrons took turns taking the stage to sing songs. Some were bawdy and made the blushing Wirt want to leap over the table and cover Greg’s ears. Others were poignant and sentimental, making Wirt jealous that his many attempts at poetry would never have the same effect on others. One of the more appropriate songs sounded familiar, but Wirt could not think of where he had heard it before, and he definitely had not heard the lyrics before. Beatrice fidgeted in his hair, and she might have whispered something menacing, but he ignored her. He was not going to let an irritable bluebird disrupt his opportunity to relax.

When one of the singing patrons stepped off the stage, the tavern woman immediately stepped on. A vociferous roar from the crowd cheered as she took her place at the center, with the musicians behind her. She cleared her throat and sang a short diddy—ominous, creepy, and unsettling, but oddly catchy.

_He lurks out there in the unknown_  
_seeking those who are far from home,  
_ _hoping never to let you return._

_Oooh, you better beware._  
_Oooh, the Beast is out there._  
_Oooh, you better be wise,  
_ _and don't believe his lies!_

_For once you will begin to spoil_  
_he'll turn you to a tree of oil,  
_ _and use you in his lantern to burn._

A mental flag raised up in Wirt’s head. The day before, Adelaide mentioned something about a beast. _The Beast likes your kind._ And then shortly after, to Beatrice: _If I send them out in the woods, then the Beast will get them_. He meant to ask Beatrice what Adelaide meant, but the circumstances of yesterday and today caused him to forget all about a beast. His heart was thumping more rapidly—a sign of nervousness or alarm? Both? Was this beast something to worry about? He looked over to Greg, who unworriedly bobbed his head side-to-side with the music being played. The frog dozed on the table, equally uninterested.

The patrons clapped when the woman finished her song, but once it died down, she continued with a different song, with an accompanying melody.

_Gather round, my friends, and let us discuss_   
_the one we wait for, the one who will save us._

_He—or she—arrives like many others._   
_He—or she—could be confused for another!_

_But this lonely being, this solitary soul_   
_shall take upon a mighty, crucial role_   
_of the Pilgrim, the one from far and wide,_   
_and the one who shall skin the Beast’s hide!_

The tavern woman continued on with a winding narrative, but the words were lost on Wirt. He was too preoccupied with the concept of a beast. When she finished, the crowd continued their bellowing praises, clapping, or banging on their tables. Wirt waited for the noise to fade away into the gentle music—no one took up the stage after the woman.

“Beatrice—”

“What?”

“What’s the Beast?”

More fiddling around in his hair. “Can you keep still up there?” he added, frustrated.

Although Beatrice was not in his view, he sensed that she was scowling at him in the best way that a bluebird could scowl. “Calm down, you loser.” She shifted once more, this time obviously to annoy him. Wirt pressed his lips together as tightly as possible to prevent himself from retorting. “Oh, yeah, so the Beast? It’s just a tale to keep little kids inside.”

That was a sketchy lie, and Wirt could not help himself. “That’s what they say about the Garden Wall where I’m from, and obviously that’s not true.”

If Beatrice had responded, it went unnoticed. The tavern door opened, inviting in a brief icy draft and the sound of heavy rain. The music and chattering halted abruptly. A tall, burly man stepped inside the tavern, his long brown coat soaked and dripping. In one hand, he carried an axe, which he propped against the wall. The other hand carried a lit oil lamp. All eyes were on him as he removed the sodden fabric off from his body, hanging it on the coatrack, as well as his damp stove pipe hat. Wirt was unsure why everyone was so entranced with the man, but he was just as fascinated. Or maybe he was fixated on his fellow patrons’ interest and reaction. Either the man did not notice the silence, or had and just did not care, but he moved to a table several feet to the left of Wirt and Greg’s table. Once he sat and placed the still-lit lantern on top of the table, the musicians apprehensively restarted their music. The talking resumed as well, albeit hushed and gossiping, with glances in the man’s direction.

“Why’d it get so quiet?” whispered Beatrice.

But Wirt was more intrigued with the tavern woman approaching the solitary man.

“Well, hello, Woodsman. We haven’t seen you in here since, well, since…”

The man lifted a hand to indicate that he knew what she meant. “Yes, it has been some time.” He kept his eyes to the floor, or to his table, and his voice low.

“What can I get you to drink? We have the buffet ready if you’re hungry—”

“Just an ale, please,” the man continued.

The woman hastily skipped off to fetch his requested beverage. Out of the corner of his eye so as not to be overt, Wirt observed the man. He was perhaps in his mid- to late fifties, but certainly no older than sixty-three or so; wrinkles lined his forehead and mouth. Dark gray hair and sideburns, a bulbous nose. Sullen, pale skin. He frowned perpetually. Definitely a robust build, but not overweight. The tavern woman brought the man his glass of ale, for which he thanked her before he took a sip. And there was Greg—

_Greg?!_

The little boy had stood up from his seat and walked to the man. “Hi, mister! You look sad. Is there anything I can help you with? Do you wanna pet my frog, Albert? He’s really friendly.” He let out a cough in the crook of his elbow.

“Greg!” Wirt muttered, embarrassed for himself. “Just leave him alone.”

The man turned to Wirt. “It’s fine, young man.” He then glanced at Greg, softly smiling. “No thank you, but how very kind of you to offer. I would just like to be alone, if that’s alright.”

“Okay!” Greg agreed. He patted the man’s arm before returning to his seat.

Strangely, though, the man continued to speak to Wirt. “A nor’easter is beginning to stir out there.”

Not wanting to be impolite, Wirt responded, “Oh? H-how can you tell?” The man was not particularly threatening. His face was rather sympathetic, with forlorn hazel eyes and a gentle, grandfatherly demeanor. Still, Wirt needed to remain alert around anyone who carried an axe, especially in the rain, and brought it into a tavern.

“I can feel it. Nor’easters are powerful, lasting buggers. It’ll be raining for another day or so, I can just tell.” The man sipped more of his ale, his attention now on the music rather than the teenaged boy, his half-brother, and the frog. Wirt remained rigid, half puzzled with the man, and half...understanding? Despite his questionable axe-wielding, Wirt sympathized with the man, a strange, indescribable kind of connection. He came across as lonely, and melancholy; even Greg noticed that. And the tavern woman did called him Woodsman, so maybe it was a perfectly sane reason he was carrying it around? Wirt wondered if he should continue the conversation, the inconsequential small talk, to brighten the man's night.

As if on cue, a sharpness dug into Wirt’s scalp. “Ow!” he yelped.

“Sorry,” Beatrice apologized half-heartedly from underneath his hat. “But it’s the only way to get your attention. And I’m saying that we have to go.”

Wirt turned inwards so that the man would not notice him speaking to nothing. “Go where?” Wirt whispered angrily. “You heard him; it’s gross out there. No, we’ve got a room to stay in for tonight.”

“No, seriously we have to..." the bird's voice faded. "You know what? That's fine and dandy if you want to stay here—but _I'm going_.”

“ _Hey_ , we have a deal, remember?”

“I won’t be gone _forever_ ,” Beatrice rebuked. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

“How do I know that?”

“You don’t,” the bird admitted. “But, you still have the scissors I need. I promise I’ll return in the morning.”

“Seriously, it’s _disgusting_ out there. I don’t think birds like getting their wings wet unless they’re bathing themselves—”

Another pointed edge pressed into his head. “Stop assuming things about me, okay, asshole? Just let me go at the door and I promise I will haul my ass back here in the morning so we can head to the wall, okay?”

“No! That’s a terrible idea—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” mumbled Beatrice. Wirt’s hat slid off his head, an effort of Beatrice’s, allowing for the bird to release herself and zoom to the front door.

“Bird inside!” cried out several voices. Beatrice flew around in search for another exit, but the windows were shut tightly. A pandemonium of shrieks and movements erupted when she passed by, as if Beatrice was unwanted varmint rather than a bluebird (though with her attitude, she could be easily confused for a pest). Someone near the door rushed over to open it. Beatrice darted out without hesitation.

And, stupidly, Wirt jumped up from his table, grabbed for his hat, and ran after her.

He could not explain what possessed him to do so—an unthinking impulse for sure, but he was sprinting as rapidly as his spindly legs allowed, determined to pursue the bluebird and talk some sense into her. One foot after the other, rain pummeled him as he moved forward, calling out Beatrice’s name. He could scarcely make out a buzzing figure several yards in front of him, desperately trying to flee as the rain impeded her escape.

“ _Leave me alone_!” Beatrice hollered, though most of her volume was lost in the rain. Running, running, running. It was almost endless, and Wirt was wondering if Beatrice was intentionally flying as far as she could until Wirt would give up and retreat back to the tavern.

“Oh, come _on_! This is ridiculous! We have a room to stay in for the night!”

Even with the rain blinding him, Wirt saw the bluebird descending to the ground. Already? He had not expected her to cave in so easily, but that was not a complaint. Wirt stopped in his tracks, the mud squishing into his feet, his clothes sealed against his skin, the hat in his hands a wet, starchy mess, his hair clinging to his face. “Let’s just go back and—”

“ _Go away_ ,” Beatrice growled.

A flash of lightning illuminated the scene, with a crack of thunder instantaneously following. “Beatrice, _really_ —”

Another lightning bolt and its accompanying drum. Even underneath the forest trees, this was unsafe, and unpleasant. He needed to return to the tavern, but only when Beatrice would stop her weird stubbornness and just cave and go with him.  

Wirt took one step closer to the tiny mound that was Beatrice. Was she hurt again? No, she was not injured, but she was… expanding. With each second, the small lump that was Beatrice the Bluebird grew and developed into something dissimilar. In confusion, Wirt stared, with the daggers of rain fuzzing his view in addition to soaking him even more. But even with the rain clouding his vision, and the filthy mud seeping around the soles of his feet, he understood plainly.

Where a bluebird had landed was now a human girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaaaaat? Stay tuned! Also, Woodsman feels? Woodsman feels. 
> 
> Poetry credit: Once again, OTGW (chapter 8, "Babes in the Woods"), and "Rain" by Edward Thomas. Also, a song credit: the Beast song from OTGW (chapter 4, "Songs of the Dark Lantern"). The second "song" is my pitiful attempt at rhyming.


	9. Stupid

Greg knew his older brother well. He knew about Wirt’s funny poetry, and his clarinet-playing, and the mixtapes that he liked to make, and how he went to sleep before eleven o’clock every night, and his love for spaghetti, and his ooey-gooey feelings for a girl named Sara, and how he had, what their mother liked to call, “teenaged angst.” Greg did not know what “teenaged angst” meant, but it might have something to do with Wirt’s grumpiness. Wirt liked being in his room all day, only leaving for school, or to eat, or use the bathroom. If it was not for these responsibilities, and for Greg being a dutiful brother, Wirt would never see daylight. He was smart because he got A’s and B’s in his classes, and read a lot of books. And, Wirt was usually unsure about what to do. He was always going back and forth on stuff without ever doing said stuff. Their parents named this “indecisiveness,” but Greg chalked it up to Wirt’s overly careful nature—or, maybe they were the same? Wirt just liked to be aware of situations at hand, and whether or not he should act upon them (at least, that was how Wirt described it when Greg asked him).

Greg also knew that while Wirt spent most of his time being “reasonable” and thinking “responsibly,” the fifteen-year-old boy was prone to quick, sudden bursts of being “impulsive” (“impulsive” was one the recent words on Greg’s spelling test). These reckless moments never lasted because Wirt would then come to his senses and realize just how silly he had been, but he would have to pay for the “consequences” (a word their mother used often, and Greg liked how fancy schmancy it sounded).

Wirt jumping up to his feet so he could run after Beatrice in the rain—now, _that_ was impulsive.

“Hey, wait for me!” Greg called out, grabbing Adelaide’s basket and Albert the Frog. His tea kettle bounced on his head, and once he made it outside, the rain slapped against the metal. Wirt blazed ahead of him, but Greg did not have much of a point of reference; Wirt was holding his red cone hat in his hand rather than wearing it on his head, and the heavy rain blinded Greg. The faster he went, the worse it got. The little basket flailed behind him, and Albert’s frog skin was slippery with the rain.

But he ran, practically _miles_  behind Wirt, afraid that he would not catch up to his older brother. Then he would be alone, lost in the rain with no one except Albert the Frog. Albert was good company, but not enough.

“Wirt!” Greg cried as high as his lungs allowed, but the only response was a stark white crack of lightning and a smack of thunder. Ahead, he could barely see the string bean that was Wirt racing even further into the darkness, saying something that the downpour muted. Then—it stopped. Did Wirt vanish? _Oh no!_ No…no, Wirt was there, he had just stopped. That was good! Maybe then they could all go back to the nice tavern, warm up and dry themselves near the fire, then go to sleep and continue their adventure home.

Lightning struck again, the thunder rolling in just a split second afterwards. Greg came to a halt next to Wirt. “It’s a good thing you stopped because I would’ve lost you!” he exclaimed through his panting. Except Wirt was not paying attention to him. His eyes glared at the sight in front of him. Greg followed his brother’s line of vision. Even in the rain shower, Greg saw it.

Or her.

A girl, probably around Wirt’s age.

“B-Beatrice?” Wirt stuttered.

“Wait, what?!” Greg shouted. “Beatrice? Is that you?”

The girl sat in the mud, her back towards the two brothers. “I said go away!”

That was Beatrice’s voice for sure.

The only sound was the rain, soaking the three of them, plastering their clothes to their skin.

“Oh, um…okay,” Wirt finally said. “Let’s just…go back to the tavern and talk about this—”

“No!” Beatrice snapped. She struggled to get to her feet, with the loose mud underneath their feet and the falling water beating against her. Eventually she stood straight. Greg could identify a few features, like how she was a little taller than Wirt, and a pointy nose. “I told you not to follow me, and here we are. If you just listened to me—”

“Are we really going to argue in this rainstorm?” Wirt interrupted. “And are you really going to sleep outside tonight when we have a dry room to sleep in?”

“I’ve done it before.”

The girl who was Beatrice then folded her arms across her chest and turned away dramatically.

“Why are you being so insufferable?”

“Me? Insufferable? I’m not the insufferable one!”

“But we’re in the middle of a thunderstorm when we could be inside back at the tavern! Then we can argue about your being a human and all.”

Beatrice made a noise that suggested she disliked this idea. “Can you not understand that I really just want to be alone, and that I was trying to keep this from you? I mean, honestly, there’s nothing else you need to know, now let me go find a tree to sleep under, and in the morning, I’ll be back!”

Wirt took a few steps closer to the girl, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not letting you sleep in the rain. This is just stupid, okay, and you’re being stubborn for no reason.”

Beatrice flinched at Wirt’s touch and moved forward. “I don’t give a shit what you think, so for once, respect my wishes and leave me alone!”

“Greg, talk some sense into her—”

The girl broke into a run. “Oh come on!” Wirt yelled, pursuing her. “Quit being so hardheaded!”

Greg sighed. “Not again,” he grumbled under his breath, and he followed after Wirt.

Except he did not have to run very far. Ahead of him, Greg heard a scream—a very Beatrice-like sounding scream. Then another one, except this time, it was a typical Wirt scream.

“Beatrice! Wirt!” Greg hollered. He ran in the same direction as the two—at least, he thought it was the same direction. His feet plopped in the mud—plop, plop, plop, plop. Another step forward, and his foot slipped. Greg nearly lost his balance, but quickly regained himself. Greg bent down to pat the ground in front him. The ground sloped downwards. Not a very steep slope, but it was going down. Wirt and Beatrice must have slid in the slippery mud. Despite the rain, he saw two lumps several yards away, unmoving and on the ground. He carefully advanced towards them. “Beatrice? Wirt? Are you okay?”

“Y-yes, just…just give us a moment,” Beatrice mumbled.

Greg huffed. “Are you sure you are okay? What if you’re hurt?”

Wirt, who was lying on his back, moaned. “Greg, it’s fine—”

A noise that was not rain rushed from somewhere farther away. Greg looked up to see a black mass far away, but moving closer towards the three. To prevent rain from further obscuring his sight, Greg squinted his eyes. He recognized a big, four-legged creature, and a square-ish compartment of sorts attached to it.

“Wait here!” Greg commanded to the two teenagers. He placed the basket and Albert down next to them, and sprinted towards the moving matter in hopes that it was what he thought it was. He heard Wirt call out to him, but he ignored his older brother. This was important. He might be able to save them!

Greg stumbled onto the muddy path and planted his feet firmly into the ground. “Stop!” he demanded. The rapidly-approaching figure neighed and halted. Yes! Just like he thought—it was a horse-drawn carriage. Greg moved nearer to the horse; he did not see a driver. If the horse had no driver, then how did it know where was it going? And how could it see in the rain and darkness? Maybe it was a magical horse.

“Hello?” Greg called out, walking to the doors of the carriage.

The door opened, and an elderly man popped his head out. “My dear boy, what are you doing out in the woods this late at night, and in the rain?”

“My brother and our friend need help!” Greg informed. “They slid in the mud and they might be hurt—”

The old man’s eyes widened. “Goodness! Take me to them, laddie, and perhaps I can help.” The man hopped out of the carriage. He was dressed like George Washington, with a long, fancy coat, and funny pants. Greg led him towards Beatrice and Wirt—although the man briefly stopped at the horse to pat it and say, “Stay here, Fred.”

“Here!” Greg pointed to Wirt and the human Beatrice once he and the Founding Father made it to the teenagers.

Wirt, his legs and backside caked with sludge, was sitting up now. Beatrice still had her back against the ground. “Greg, who is this?” Wirt asked.

The old man offered his hand in response. “Quincy Endicott, at your service, young man. Your brother flagged my horse down and requested help. Judging by the predicament at hand, I believe I can be of assistance to you and your friend. Are either of you injured?”

“No,” the two said at the same time.

“I thought maybe I twisted my ankle, but it’s fine,” Wirt added, rubbing his left ankle.

“Good then. But I would like to help you out of this storm. I’m on my way back to my estate, and there are plenty of rooms available. I doubt my wife would mind if I brought along a few guests. It can get awfully lonely in that house, even when both of us are there.”

Greg beamed, watching as Wirt was helped up to his feet. Endicott then turned to Beatrice and stuck out his hand in aid, but Beatrice denied the hand and stood up on her own. The very smart Albert was perched on top of the basket so that he would not get muddy ( _don’t frogs like being in the mud? Oh well! Hmm…Albert doesn’t really suit him…_ ); Greg grasped the basket’s handle and took his place next to Wirt. As the nice old man walked the three of them back to his carriage, Beatrice lagged in the back. Wirt and Beatrice were mad at each other; well, at least Wirt was mad with Beatrice. That was why Wirt had his arms crossed in front of him. Another one of Wirt’s habits that Greg knew about.

Upon returning to the carriage, Endicott petted the horse. “Thank you for waiting, Fred. I know you’re itching to head home, as am I, but I believe these children need help.”

“No problem, sir,” a deep-seated voice arose from the horse.

So he _was_ magical!

“Oh great, a talking _horse,_ ” Wirt groaned. “Are you secretly a human, too?”

The horse turned its head to one side. “No?” it said, but like a question, as if it were the wrong answer.

“Get over yourself,” Beatrice mumbled, brushing past Greg, Wirt, and Endicott to claim a seat in the carriage.

* * *

Beatrice twirled a lock of her wet, muddied hair around her finger. Sitting next to Greg, she stared out the narrow windowpane of Quincy Endicott’s carriage so she would not have to look at Wirt, who was sitting diagonally across from her. Endicott was placed in front of her, his arms resting on his lap. She snuck small glances at him. He was elderly, roughly in his sixties, but he had a full head of silver hair, and youthful, sparkling brown eyes that somehow made the hooded lids, the wrinkles around and the bags underneath them hardly noticeable. Judging from his clothes, and his carriage, he was wealthy. The name “Endicott” was familiar, but she could not place where she heard it before.

“So, if I may ask, what were three children doing in a thunderstorm at this time of the night?” Endicott asked.

Beatrice said nothing. Wirt was equally quiet.

“We’re lost,” Greg responded for them. “Wirt and I—oh, I’m Greg, and he’s Wirt—we’re trying to go home, and Beatrice right here is helping us.” He then added, “And this is Kitty, my frog!”

“Is that so?” Beatrice felt Endicott’s eyes in her direction. She nodded to acknowledge Greg’s explanation, and briefly diverted her attention to the elderly man. Endicott smiled at her. She weakly returned the grin before resting her eyes back to the windowpane. There was not much to see other than the rain, but it was better than having to look Wirt in the face. Breathing the same carriage air was all the contact that she could handle at the moment. _Stupid Wirt with his stupid name, and his stupid outfit, and his stupid poetry, and his stupid stubbornness, and his stupidity. So, so stupid._ She could not care less if he was trying to be sensible and offer to let her sleep in the room he and Greg were promised. She just wanted to be left alone, and if he listened, then neither of them would know about her curse, and they would not be on their merry way to a rich stranger’s “estate.” Not that she thought Quincy Endicott came across as menacing, but then again, she thought Adelaide was hospitable out of sincerity. And she could not blame Endicott for this. This was Wirt’s fault. None of this would have happened if Wirt had not tied that damn yarn around her bird leg. She should not have made this deal with him. Who cared if he had the scissors?

 _I do_ , she admitted to herself in defeat.

And she owed it to Greg, who not only helped her out of the bush, but was not even eight years old, and was lost in the woods, with a lame jerk for a brother. Greg needed to be led back to safety, she wanted to ensure it. Unfortunately, Greg and Wirt were a team. Maybe not by choice—definitely not Wirt’s choice—but they were a team nonetheless.

Beatrice fully intended to stay out the entire night so that Wirt and Greg would not see her, though she originally meant to sleep out in the stable so that she would not have to brave the rain. She had done it before, both as a bird and a human. She usually found shelter in heavily thicketed areas, and she grew accustomed to the clamminess, either in her ruffled feathers or human skin. So, maybe Wirt was right about her being hotheaded and obstinate, but if only Wirt had _listened_ to her! And when that man came into the tavern—he and Greg would not have been safe there, but Wirt would not believe her if she said why, or he would be too inquisitive. Still, it was nice to be out of the rain. The grime packed all over her body was messy; just sitting was uncomfortable because she felt the filth move with her whenever she shifted, but at least she was not getting any more sopping wet.

The frog, sitting in Greg’s lap, croaked. Beatrice rested her eyes on the uncaring amphibian. She envied its indifference to the situation. She also envied Greg in everything he did. Either he was oblivious to the gravity of the matters at hand, or he chose to think positively, but she was jealous of his ability to act so cheerfully. Later, she would have to thank him for seeking out help when he thought she was wounded, again. That would be more than Wirt would do. Wirt would just berate Greg, if anything. _Stupid Wirt._

“And where is home for you two?” Endicott’s voice echoed, stirring Beatrice back to reality.

“We come from over the Garden Wall,” Wirt’s bluntness interjected. Beatrice fumed at the sound of him speaking, regardless of what he was actually saying.

Beatrice expected Endicott to react like everyone else. Gasps of astonishment, a repetition of ideas, and a sudden wash of fear for them. It was how she responded that first night. Since her parents’ childhoods, the crossings were rare, but the past stories were enough to make anyone shudder.

But Endicott was tact. “I see,” he coolly responded, a clear indicator that he understood with what he happened across. He eyed Beatrice, and she exchanged the same severe look, as if to convey, _Yes, I know._ “And how long have you been here?”

“Four days, I think,” Greg piped up after using his fingers to recount the days. Not exactly; more like three, going into four nights and three days, but it was close enough not to warrant a verbalized correction.

“Good heavens!” Endicott quipped. “That is quite the feat!”

It was. The old stories suggested that no one lasted longer than two days.

As the carriage journey went on, Beatrice listened to Endicott’s ramblings juxtaposed with Greg’s childlike wonder. Endicott’s kookiness shone through many times; he mentioned how he first met Fred the Talking Horse, once a highwayman’s steed, when the horse fled a robbery scene and forgot to bring his master with him. At the time, Endicott was returning from a long day of butterfly chasing (an unusual hobby, but it came as no surprise to Beatrice). And, apparently, he originally thought his wife was a ghost haunting his estate… when it was revealed that she also lived in his estate, which was actually her estate (Beatrice was unsure how any of that made sense, but Endicott was laughing hysterically at the memory, and Greg joined in).

The carriage halted. “Ladies first,” Endicott insisted kindly, opening the carriage door.

“Does that rule apply to girls who are also birds?” Beatrice heard Wirt remark caustically, and she would have grimaced at him, but she let it slide this time around. She stepped out of the carriage and into the rain, but at that point, it was useless to even care about getting wet. Besides, Beatrice was more intrigued with Endicott’s estate.

Colossal. Quite literally the largest building she ever saw, both in width and in height. Also the most ornate. The courtyard, which she stood in, could easily fit the entire market, maybe even three markets, that Beatrice used to visit with her family when she was a curse-free human. The main staircase, shaped like a horseshoe, was at least twice her height. Her jaw separated in bewilderment. Endicott was not wealthy. He was _filthy stinking rich._

The man ushered her and the brothers to that same staircase after saying goodnight to Fred. Beatrice quickly glanced over her shoulder to see Fred trotting off somewhere, although he was no longer pulling the carriage.

Inside the front entryway, Beatrice was greeted with more astonishment—both her own and someone else’s.

“ _Mon Dieu_!”

A woman, with a tall hairdo and a wide dress, scurried towards the scene at the front door. She was speaking rapidly, incoherently, and definitely not in English. Judging from her accent and handful of words and phrases she was able to decipher from her school lessons, Beatrice assumed the woman was French. Her appearance and apparel suggested she was Endicott’s wife.

“Margueritte, _ma cherie, nous avons_ …umm…company,” Endicott interrupted the woman. “They’re lost and _l’orage_ outside—”

“ _Bien sûr!_ ” Margueritte exclaimed. _Of course._ She turned to face Beatrice. Even in the dim light of the foyer, Beatrice could see that Margueritte was absolutely stunning. “Come with me, _ma petite_ , you will be spending the night in my wing.”

Whisked away up the flight of marble steps and around several hallways, Beatrice was in awe of the interior architecture—white and gold, walls carved and decorated in a pattern that evoked femininity and delicacy. She half-listened to Margueritte carrying on about any clothing she might have that Beatrice could wear. “I can forfeit my bath for tonight, I believe you are in need it more than I. _Parlez-vous français?_ ”

“No,” Beatrice responded as politely as she could.

“Not a problem by any means,” Margueritte continued. “And your name?”

“Beatrice.”

“ _Quel joli nom_!”

She brought Beatrice into an open room, soft pink and floral. At the center, a bathtub was planted. “The water should be nice and hot for you to soak and clean yourself in. I will come back twenty minutes or so to give you a nightgown and show you to a room.”

Margueritte disappeared before Beatrice could even say her thanks. She dipped her hand into the water. Invitingly warm. Beatrice freed herself of the soaked, filthy dress, and her undergarments, and jumped into the bath. She pulled out the ribbon in her hair, even though most of her hair had already escaped its tie. The water smelled like baby’s breath and lavender. Beatrice rinsed and rung out her hair before tying it up again so she could rest her back against the tub and simply enjoy herself. She forgot everything…absolutely everything…

“Beatrice!” Margueritte’s voice erupted from behind the bathroom’s door.  Her twenty minutes were up. “I have a nightgown for you!”

Brought back to reality, Beatrice reluctantly exited the bath with an accompanying sigh, retrieving and putting on a silken robe folded over the back of a chair in the corner. She picked up her gross clothing and opened the door to see Margueritte holding a pile of white fabric in her hands. “I’ve your room ready.”

Beatrice followed Margueritte through more corridors and around more corners before they entered another room. “Is this suitable?” the woman asked as she placed the nightgown on the foot of the four-poster bed.

It was extravagant. “Yes, this’ll be fine.”

Margueritte smiled. “ _Bien_. Well I shall see you in the morning for breakfast then.”

“Wait!” Beatrice said. She hesitated, Margueritte’s questioning eyes upon her.

“This is all very nice, and thank you for everything so far, but I… it won’t matter in the morning.” Beatrice dreaded what she was about to confess, but she knew she had to, otherwise there would be questions in the morning, and sneers from Wirt.  “I won’t be human in the morning.” She paused. “I’m cursed.”

“What kind of curse?”

At least this was not Wirt she was speaking to. “I turn into a bluebird, and I’m only a human every other night.”

Margueritte nodded. “Ah, _oui_ , the animal’s curse. I understand, _ma petite_.” Beatrice lifted an eyebrow, but Margueritte merely gave a knowing smile. “No need to fret. I am not a witch. _Bonne nuit,_ Beatrice.”

When she left, Beatrice replaced the robe with the nightgown and threw back the bedsheets. Underneath the covers of her bed, Beatrice nearly forgot about, or rather, repressed thoughts of, her curse and her anger with Wirt. _Stupid Wirt._ Against her back, the plush mattress molded to every muscle. The sheets provided Beatrice with a warmth and security she had not experienced since she was a human free of bluebird curses. Not even her brief stint sleeping on Adelaide’s floor with a quilt could compare to the ephemeral bliss Beatrice felt at this moment. It would all be meaningless when she transformed back into a bird at sunrise, but she could get a few hours of human night’s rest, and relish this moment without the threat of a maniacal witch intent on keeping her forever.

She was not quite asleep, but not quite awake, either, when the door to her temporary room creaked open. Beatrice’s eyes flicked open, and she let out a frustrated groan.

“ _Pssssst. Beeeeeaaaaaatrice_!” It was Greg’s whisper that was just a smidgeon too loud to be a real whisper.

“Mpfh, yes, Greg?” Beatrice turned to the other side to face the boy. He was dressed in a little nightshift as well, with a candleholder held in one hand, and his frog in the other. “How did you find my room? This place is massive.” Endicott’s story made more sense now.

“Oh, I’ve been trying to find you for a while now. I think this is the eleventh or twelfth room I’ve looked in.” He was rather proud confessing his grand quest to search for Beatrice, a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

“How are you going to get back to your room?”

Greg ignored her concern, instead taking a step or two closer to Beatrice’s bed. “Wirt is mad at you,” he declared, his voice lowered and almost secretive, as if he were betraying Wirt’s confidence. Beatrice suspected that Wirt was unaware of Greg’s whereabouts.

In her bed, she sat up to get a better view of Greg. “Yeah, well, I’m mad at him, too. Did you come all the way to tell me that?” Beatrice tried her best not to sound upset or irritated with Greg, but it was an unnecessary trip for him to convey information of which she was already well aware.

The little boy made an extra step so that he was now pressed against the edge of her bed. Greg held the candle up so that it illuminated Beatrice’s face. “I also wanted to see how you look as a girl because I didn’t get to see you good enough in the rain and you’ll be a bird in the morning, or at least I think you will,” he rambled without a natural pause. Greg sustained his little happy grin as he studied her face, with Beatrice embarrassingly self-aware of how she appeared, and unknowing of how to respond, at this moment. Greg retreated a little, the candle following him. “You’re very pretty.”

Involuntarily, Beatrice smiled. “Thank you, Greg.”

“I like your freckles. How many freckles do you have?”

“Um, at least a thousand,” Beatrice guessed.

“Whoa. A _thousand_ freckles? Have you counted them all?”

“Yes,” she lied. When she was about Greg’s age, she attempted count all her freckles, but lost interest at around thirty.

“Oh, and I like your hair. I don’t know anyone with red hair at home.”

“My whole family has red hair.”

“You have brothers and sisters?”

She nodded. “I’m the oldest of eight siblings.”

Greg’s eyes widened at this fact. “Whoa. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“You’re older than Wirt! He’s fifteen.”

Beatrice knew it was silly to blame Greg because he was just a little boy, but the mention of Wirt’s odd name soured her mood once again.

“I bet Wirt would think you’re pretty.”

She huffed. Wirt could think she was the devil incarnate, and it would mean nothing to her.

And Greg was more astute than she gave him credit for. “Will you talk to Wirt tomorrow?” Greg requested. Flatter someone in order to do your bidding— _smart move, Greg, if that’s what you were going for._

“Why should I? Your brother is an a—” Beatrice reminded herself to refrain from cursing directly in front of Greg. “He’s a poopface.” She frowned at the childish term, but it was all she could muster up that would be appropriate and equivalent to what she really wanted to describe Wirt as.

“I know you don’t get along with him, but he’s my brother, and you’re my friend, and I don’t like seeing the two of you being mean to each other,” Greg explained. The frog added on a croak.

 _You’re my friend._ Beatrice never considered calling Greg her friend—not out of dislike, but simply because she never recognized a friendship burgeoning between her and the child. Except there was one. She always wanted to keep him safe. And just the night before, she considered revealing her secret to him, just Greg, in hopes that he would keep it a secret. She sympathized with the boy in front of her, just as she always had since the first day. Upsetting Greg was not a feat she ever wanted to experience. She had already caused upset in her own family.

“Okay, Greg. I’ll…I’ll talk to your brother in the morning. But he has to agree to listen to me.”

Greg winked at her. “Don’t worry. I’m very persuasive.”

Beatrice gently laughed at Greg’s mispronunciation as she watched him depart her room. She really had no desire to speak to Wirt, and Wirt should actually approach _her_ first ( _stupid Wirt_ )… but this was a promise for Greg. Beatrice shimmied back into her safe cocoon of sheets, closing her eyes in hopes that she would fall asleep. In attempt to divert her attention from what she would discuss with Wirt in the day ahead, her last thought was how sweetly fragrant the room was. Like baby’s breath and lavender.

* * *

The Woodsman watched as the bluebird fled past him and to the door, with a brief spark of erraticism amongst the patrons until someone opened the door. The bird disappeared into the torrential shower. He was astonished to see that the eldest boy unthinkingly darted after her, his red cone hat in his hand and the blue cape fastened around his body flowing behind him rather gallantly. Then the little boy, who wore a tea kettle on his head, cried, “Hey, wait for me!” Frog and basket in his hands, he chased after the two others. The door finally closed once he stepped outside.

“Do you think they’ll be back?” one of the patrons asked the crowd.

“It’s doubtful,” answered the man who had opened and closed the door. “Even if the rain lets up any time soon, well, then…”

His voice trailed off, but the Woodsman knew why he was hesitant to finish his thoughts. He felt the glances of several other customers in his direction, but he pretended to ignore them as he sipped the remainder of his ale.  Even if they did not know the full truth, they suspected certain things, and he was not going to refute them. And it was not as if they ever did anything about it. They could point, and whisper, and judge, but they would never actually intervene.

The night went on, and the patrons withdrew either to their rooms upstairs or back to their homes, braving the weather. The Woodsman was not the last to leave, but he departed when the tavern was nearly empty. The rain was still falling hardly as he trudged back to his old home, although it had not felt like home for thirteen years. Usually, he stayed in his one-room shack because it did not bring back the memories, but tonight, he wanted to reminiscence. He needed to be reminded of his reasons for doing what he did.

He saw the mill about a quarter of a mile ahead when the operatic bellow spoke. “Well, my friend? Did you check upon them?”

“Yes, I did,” the Woodsman affirmed.

The glow of the shadow’s eyes brightened. It was excited. “And? How are they?”

“I…I think you should leave them alone.” He could not bring himself to explain why, that is, not to the figure before him. He hoped it would not demand a defense; the Woodsman was not about to share the warmth he experienced when the youngest boy reached out to him out of kindness. He had not been offered such friendliness in over a decade, and to have it come from a child was, well, humbling. And the kinship he felt to the adolescent boy—he reminded the Woodsman of himself when he was that age, but it was more than a passing, self-projecting glimpse. He saw it in the boy’s sepia eyes, that there was something in common between them, even if he was unclear of what it could be. No, he could not bear to see harm come to the two brothers.

The iridescent white eyes dimmed. “That doesn’t answer my question, Woodsman. You know I cannot do that, and neither can you.”

“But I found the untapped tree yesterday. It will sustain—”

“It is an oasis in a desert, yes, I agree. But it will dry out quickly if we use it as our sole source. We must utilize this chance, Woodsman. This opportunity might not come again for another decade, or more. I depend upon it. You depend upon it.” It paused for a beat. “ _She_ depends upon it.”

Yes, that was true.

It began with her, it resulted with her.

“I would give it another few days,” the Woodsman confessed out of defeat. “They will only get more lost, especially in this storm.”

The eyes shined once more. “Excellent. I will come to you when I need the lantern.”

The shadow dissipated into the darkness, and the Woodsman once again became aware of the rain. After entering the house and changing into his sleeping long johns, he curled into the bed he slept in once every six months, listening to rain outside, convincing himself that the ends justified the means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Woodsman emotions? Always. And getting the opportunity to write in Greg's point of view is fun, albeit challenging. Thinking like a little kid is hard, but Greg is such a cutie patootie, and he is an important witness to all the Wirt/Beatrice. 
> 
> When watching "Mad Love," the brief scene that shows the exterior of the Endicott-Grey estate reminded me of Château de Fontainebleau; the horseshoe staircase is definitely a correlation to Fontainebleau's staircase (and, history alert!, is where Napoeleon Bonaparte announced his first abdication of the throne). 
> 
> I also admit that we will be spending some time with Quincy Endicott and Margueritte Grey. Is it because their will be some serious plot advancement? Or is it merely an opportunity to watch Wirt and Beatrice actually start to fall for each other? ¿Por qué no los dos? I do love them, though. Cute old couple is cute. And expect lots of gratuitous French. I'm a French minor.


	10. Of Tea and Closets

Within the lavishly decorated room—deep scarlet walls with gold and white accents—a grayness casted its melancholy shadow over the furniture. From the bed, Wirt absently stared at the bedroom’s windowpane. Gray sky, and the faint whizzing of rain against the clouds resembling static on a television set. Fatalism washed over Wirt as he curled himself tighter underneath the lush sheets and closed his eyes once more. Just like waking up at the crack of dawn on a Monday, Wirt wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep and pretend he could stay in the bed forever.

Caught in a vague state of comatose, Wirt awoke at the sudden flop on the empty side of the bed. His eyes burst open from the impact, and it was no surprise to see Greg next to him—and the frog of many names in his lap. “Hi Wirt! It’s time to get up. Nice Uncle Endicott and Auntie Margueritte have breakfast waiting for us and they even have some clothes for us to wear while our others get cleaned.”

“Mmm hmmm,” Wirt answered, half-listening, until he processed what Greg had just told him. “Wait what?” the teenager shot up. He swung his legs to the edge of the bed so he could stand up. “What about the scissors?” The question was not directed towards Greg, but in his state of panic, whether Greg heard him or not was the last of Wirt’s concerns. Those scissors were his insurance against Beatrice attempting to flee a second time. And while he held a poor opinion of Beatrice at the moment, he still needed to know where the scissors were at all times.

“They’re right here,” Greg informed. Wirt spun around to see Greg pointing to the small pair of silver scissors lying on the end table on the opposite side of the bed. Wirt sighed out of relief, then climbed back into the bed.

“Hey!” Greg poked him. “You can’t go back to sleep. It’s morning, and there’s breakfast waiting for us. Breakfast food, Wirt! You _can’t_ skip breakfast. Mom says it’s the most important meal of the day.” Greg patted his belly. “It also happens to be the _best_ meal of the day.”

Wirt moaned. “I don’t want to do anything except sleep.” Not true. He also wanted to return to his house, but the day’s rain would cost their journey another day.

Greg crinkled his nose. “You promised you would speak to Beatrice.” He folded his arms together, accompanied by knitted brows and a tight frown. “You _promised_ ,” he repeated with a particular scolding emphasis.

Wirt stifled the urge to roll his eyes and heave another sigh. “Greg—”

“ _Wirt_.”

Locked in an accidental staring contest, Wirt caved after several seconds. “Okay, fine.”

“Yay!” Greg bounced off the bed and dashed towards the polished mahogany desk near the door. Wirt followed suit. Folded neatly on the top of the desk was a set of clothing; Wirt picked at them to get a better look. Judging from Wirt’s little knowledge of historical fashions seen in period dramas and the battle reenactments John dragged him and Greg to, they resembled clothing from the late eighteenth century, maybe even the early nineteenth. “I picked these out myself,” Greg beamed as Wirt unfolded the garments. The teenager flicked his eyes to study his younger brother; Greg himself was wearing similar clothing.

“How long have you been awake, Greg?”

“A while,” Greg shrugged off.

That was all the explanation Wirt needed.

“Um…Greg? Could you stand outside while I get dressed?”

“We’re both boys. It’s not like I haven’t seen anything—”

“ _Greg!_ Just wait outside, okay?”

The boy pouted as he skulked out the door. Wirt dressed himself, discarding of the nightshift (which was awkward to wear when he first adorned it the previous night, but somehow proved to be good sleeping attire). For once, it was nice to wear fresh, clean clothes, and the bath from the night before helped—although toothpaste and shampoo on this side of the Garden Wall was more primitive than to what Wirt preferred. He slipped his feet into the odd shoes resting at the foot of the chair. They were not too comfortable, either.

When he opened the door, Greg firmly grasped his hand and pulled him down the hallway. “Off to breakfast we go!”

Greg seemed to know where he was going—he turned around so many corners and went through doors, Wirt realized he would have to ask his younger brother to escort him back to the room when the time came. His attempts at paying attention to the direction quickly drifted off into studying the architecture of Endicott’s home. Most of the areas they passed through were of the Georgian style—elaborate paneling, high ceilings, walls with rich dark hues. But down a flight of stairs and into another door, the interior style changed from its bold colors and simpler style to delicate pastel colors and intricately detailed carvings in the walls. Wirt identified this as French Rococo, and was perplexed as to why there were two clashing forms of architecture.

“Greg, my boy! I see your brother finally woke up,” Endicott’s booming voice filled Wirt’s ears. Snapping back to attention, Wirt saw that the elderly man was seated at one end of a table. His wife, Margueritte, sat on the right corner adjacent to him, and two spots were set on Endicott’s left. Spread about the table was an assortment of breads, spreads, fruits, and hard-boiled eggs. Greg filed himself in the seat closest to Endicott, frog on his lap, and began spreading butter and a pinkish-red jam on a slice of toast. Wirt took his seat next to Greg and reached for an egg.

“How did the two of you sleep?” Endicott asked after a swig of water.

“ _Amazing_!” Greg answered. Wirt responded with a simple “Fine, thanks.”

“It’s a pity with the rain, but it wouldn’t sit well on my conscious to have the three of you head back to your home all wet and soggy,” Endicott continued as he poured himself more water.

“Where’s Beatrice?” Greg questioned, surveying the dining room. Wirt shrunk in his chair as he chewed his egg; he hoped the bird, or human, was not planning on joining them for breakfast. Otherwise, Greg would force them to talk then, and Wirt would prefer to eat his breakfast without a heated discussion exchanged between him and Beatrice.

Margueritte responded to Greg. “I brought her breakfast to her room, but you might see her flying around the manor.”

Wirt took this to mean that Margueritte knew of Beatrice’s…predicament. He supposed she told Endicott, but the elderly host gave no notion of his knowledge—or lack thereof. Instead, Endicott went on to discuss his career in tea-growing and selling. “Endicott Brand Tea,” he boasted, “along with Margueritte’s independent subsidiary, Grey Tea. Yes, it’s a lucrative market, though we have some competitors to worry about.”

“Like the Carson brothers.”

“Ugh, the Carson brothers. They’re most certainly the worst, and their tea is dreadful, but somehow they are an economic threat. Not too much of a menace, but still operating and doing well enough.”

Wirt tuned most of the tea-talk out as he finished his hard-boiled egg and began to spread butter and jam on a few slices of toast. When the conversation died down, he decided to bring the dialogue to the main issue at hand.

“So, thank you for all your hospitality, but we need to know how to get to the Garden Wall—”

“Oh, you won’t be leaving today, my boy, that’s a given. We’re stuck in the fringes of a nor’easter, and it looks like that rain won’t stop until the wee hours of the morning,” Endicott replied.

“Well I thought that much, but when we leave at the earliest possible convenience—”

This time, it was Margueritte who interjected. “Your best option would be to ride the McLaughlin Brothers’ ferry—or the Frogland Ferry, as it’s colloquially referred. It is about five miles to the east of the manor, and it will take you about twenty miles closer towards the wall. You will have to continue by foot another twenty miles or so, however.”

“And we can get to the ferry by tomorrow if we leave in the morning?”

“Technically, yes, but as the time grows closer to winter, the ferry operates less and less. It’s only on a week-by-week basis these days, and I believe it last went out yesterday.”

Of course it did.

“Margueritte, _ma cherie_ , how you do know all of this? I’ve never once taken that ferry.”

“ _C’est vrai_ , but I used it before I married you. It’s how I went to the various markets to sell my tea.”

Endicott chortled. “Oh yes, before we had Fred. Very well then.”

Before the discussion would be lost, Wirt brought it back. “How long would it take us to just walk to the wall?”

“Maybe four days, but there are no inns or other lodgings available on the way towards the wall, and you would be more prone to getting lost.” Margueritte continued. “The Garden Wall is not a… _destination désirable_. Whereas if you were to wait and take the ferry, then it would take you two days after departing the ferry.”

“And we can stay with you in the meantime!” Greg chimed giddily.

“Of course, laddie!” Endicott added.

Wirt fought every urge to groan so as not to appear rude. He and Greg had already been gone for roughly half a week, and now there was the highly likely chance that they would be in these odd woods even longer. His mind went back and forth on the options. Leaving immediately and walking would get them back to the wall sooner, but Margueritte was right—there was the risk of getting even more lost, and food would be more difficult to come across. Staying with Endicott and Margueritte until the next ferry meant staying longer than he wished, but it would cut their actual travel time in half. Plus, the couple was offering to let them stay as they waited.

“Okay. We’ll wait for the ferry,” he surrendered.

“Splendid!” Endicott exclaimed. “How’s about I give a tour of the mansion so the two of you won’t get lost?”

* * *

When Beatrice woke up, after narrowly escaping from being swamped underneath the sheets due to her bluebird form, she immediately noticed a porcelain teacup standing on the bedside table. Beatrice peeked inside to see a few earthworms writhing about. A piece of paper was next to the teacup, reading, in exquisitely written script:

_Bonjour, Béatrice!_

_These are a few worms from the gardens that are collected for the peacocks who graze about the grounds. I doubt they will miss a handful of these creatures. Bon appétit!_

_Margueritte_

Beatrice stared at the note, then back the cup. _How generous,_ she thought out of sincerity, then proceeded to eat her breakfast. Maybe it could be considered breakfast in bed, but Beatrice was perched on the rim of the teacup, dipping her beak into the shallow pit to clasp onto and eat a worm. She ate another one, leaving the five or six remaining at the bottom in case she grew hungry later in the day and happened to find her way back to the room.

Beatrice intended on keeping the promise she made Greg the night before. Going back on such a pledge, especially one she made with Greg, would tear her heart to shreds. Wirt would say that Beatrice possessed no heart, but that was only around him. She gave Greg her word, now she was to uphold it. Nevertheless, Beatrice was still reeling from the previous night’s anger and frustrations, and she was not ready to speak with Wirt, even if he were to approach her first. With the rain still tumbling down from what she saw outside the bedroom window, there was no chance that Wirt and Greg would even consider making the trek to the Garden Wall. It meant a day spent inside, and one that would eventually run into Wirt.

Luckily for Beatrice, there were two factors helping her procrastinate. The first was the sheer size of Endicott and Margueritte’s house. From what Margueritte said about her _wing_ , then it was logical for Endicott to have his own wing. Assuming such, it meant Wirt and Greg spent the night in Endicott’s wing, which could be _anywhere_. If Beatrice had no idea of exactly where she was in this entire mansion ( _palace_ , she corrected her thoughts, for this place was a palace in the middle of the woods), then she expected Wirt to be just as confused. Although Greg managed to find her last night, and it would be characteristic of Greg to lead her to Wirt. Or Wirt to Beatrice.

This was where the second factor came in: being a bluebird, Beatrice was small enough to go unnoticed if she hid well enough. And in this gargantuan dwelling, that would be an easy accomplishment. Unfortunately, it also meant the risk of getting lost if she did not keep tabs on her environments at all times. It was a risk that Beatrice had to take if she were to avoid Wirt as much as she could without feeling too guilty about breaking her promise to Greg. She also itched to explore more of the estate’s opulence, and wondered how only two people actually lived in this place. Maybe they employed servants, though she had not seen any last night, and it was Margueritte herself who attended to her.

A knock at the door disrupted Beatrice’s attentions. “Beatrice?” Margueritte called out. “May I come in?”

“Yes,” Beatrice affirmed. Margueritte stepped in, still wearing her nightgown and sleeping robes.

“How did you sleep, _ma petite_?”

“Well, thank you.”

Margueritte smiled. “ _Bon._ And your _petit_ déjeuner—your breakfast, I mean?”

“Oh, yes—thanks for bringing it—”

“ _Pas de problème, ma petite_. I just came to check in on you. The boys will be joining Endicott and me for breakfast, and I suppose they’ll wander around the manor for the day. Feel free to do so if you wish,” Margueritte informed.

“Margueritte?”

“ _Oui_?”

“How do you know about the animal’s curse if you aren’t a witch?”

Margueritte gazed directly into Beatrice’s bird eyes. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” Beatrice responded, though she was confused as to why Margueritte needed to know her age.

“Well, long before you were born, when I just began selling tea—” that came as a shock to Beatrice, but she listened on—“there was a witch in the market where I sold my tea. She only went to the summer markets, never the autumn or winter markets. She sold all kinds of enchanted things, and even put on an act. I never went because she always terrified me, but I did see her once perform the animal’s curse on a little girl; turned her into a cat. She reversed the girl back, but later on I saw she was upset with another customer and turned him into a _petit_ doormouse. In my library, I have some old spellbooks, so I did some research about it because I wanted to help the poor man, but I couldn’t help him. She stopped coming to the market since then, but I’ve always wondered about that man and what happened to him.”

Beatrice’s curiosity could not be held back. “Was the witch’s name Adelaide?” she inquired disdainfully.

Margueritte contemplated over this. “It might have been, but it’s been many years I’m afraid I don’t remember as clearly.”

Beatrice did not press on, but she deduced enough.

“How did your curse occur?”

“I…I was having a bad day, and I threw a rock at a bird,” Beatrice answered. “Nothing happened then, but I remember that night having a weird dream about atoning for what I did, and then I woke up as a bluebird.” It was not the full truth, but it was enough for her to sound convincing and not feel ashamed for lying.

“And the two boys? Endicott tells me they come from the Garden Wall.”

Beatrice nodded her bluebird head. “They stumbled across me a few nights ago, totally lost—and in the dark, no less.” It was better not to mention Wirt’s captivity and her intentionally leading them farther away so she could escape to Pottsfield.

“You must be a good luck charm, Beatrice,” Margueritte commented. The way she said _Beatrice_ was so delicate and airy ( _bay-ah-treece_ ), the complete opposite of Beatrice’s self-admitted gruff and blunt personality. “It’s a miracle that the Beast hasn’t taken them yet.”

“I guess,” Beatrice mumbled, unsure if she liked the idea of being anyone’s good luck charm. She was already meant to be Wirt’s present for Sara, and even if he was to let her go after she put on a show, she still felt diminished to being an object.

Marguerite only showered her with more praise. “Helping them return home is such a noble accomplishment.”

It was not as if she volunteered, but she did hope for Greg to go back safely. Beatrice nodded in acknowledgement of Marguerite’s kind words, but said nothing.

Marguerite as well kept quiet, then placed a hand on the doorknob, as if she knew Beatrice’s hesitancy. “Well, I must be off for breakfast. _A bientôt_.” She stepped out of the room and into the hallway, leaving the door open. Beatrice assumed this was for her to come and go as she pleased.

So Beatrice did just that. She flew out of the room and explored Endicott and Margueritte’s palace. She tried her best to mark her “tracks” so as not to fly around in the labyrinth of a dwelling in search of her room. Not that it would be of much use to her as a bird, but her cup of worms were waiting for her in case she were to grow hungry. Many doors were closed, but a few were open just a tad, allowing for the bird to slip through and examine the space. Many of them were bedrooms, but Beatrice doubted that any of them were ever put to use. Some rooms were entirely empty save for the decorative walls and an area rug placed in the middle. At one point, Beatrice stumbled into a vast room with fully-stocked bookshelves; she presumed this was Margueritte’s library, and unlike the other rooms, there were noticeable signs of use. A knitted blanket draped lazily over the arm of a chair, and an unfinished cup of tea and the wax stub of a candle sat atop the desk. Beatrice peeked out of the library’s windows. The view was not of the courtyard Beatrice saw last night, but another garden. Rain continued to spill, with no sign of letting up.

Beatrice exited the library and continued to roam throughout the hallways. Belatedly, it occurred to her that the white and gold interior had changed into a completely different style. Dark-colored wallpaper adorned the walls, and the complex carvings turned into paneling. Her chances of returning to her room without help would not happen any time soon; she would have to find Greg or Margueritte and have either of them lead her back. She would worry about that when the time came, however; she wanted to explore more of this new area, which she guessed to be Endicott’s wing from the change transition to simpler, but still ridiculously expensive, decoration.

Down a winding flight of stairs, she came across a large interior garden with bushes and vines. Beatrice recognized various tea leaves; this was probably the tea garden—Marguerite did mention she sold tea at the market.

 _Endicott Brand Tea!_ Beatrice thought. That was where she heard Endicott’s name before. He sold tea; it was mother’s preferred brand, although they mostly drank the cheaper Carson Tea because that was what they could afford. Endicott Brand Tea had been more of a delicacy during Christmas or other special occasions in Beatrice’s family.

So, that was why Endicott and Margueritte were so wealthy. Apparently, people really liked Endicott Brand Tea.

Beatrice left the tea garden and searched even more. She found another library, although it was smaller than Margueritte’s, and appeared to be neglected. There was a thick sheet of dust over the furniture, and nothing looked as though it were out of place. The window overlooked a different garden from the one Beatrice saw through the window in Margueritte’s library—a smaller garden with twin benches facing each other. The plants resembled various herbs.

As Beatrice flew on, she lost track of the time until reaching a grandfather clock at the end of a hallway meeting with another. The clock’s face read _twelve-thirty-two._ Beatrice did not know the exact time she woke up, but she guessed it was around sunrise (and Margueritte must have been awake even earlier than her if she harvested worms for Beatrice).Had she really been wandering around the house for that long? She felt like she only observed a mere corner of what this estate held inside its walls. She was not hungry, or at least she tried to convince herself she was not hungry because she was not looking forward to searching for her room. Maybe it was time to find Margueritte, or Greg—

“Whoa, Uncle Endicott—what is this?”

That was Greg’s astonishment emanating from somewhere. Beatrice, perched at the top of the grandfather clock, froze. Endicott was with him, for sure. That could be a good thing. This was Endicott’s wing, after all. He could show her back to her room.

“That’s a harpsichord,” Endicott’s distant voice replied. “Do either of you play?”

 _Do either of you play_? _Shit_. That meant Wirt might be with them.

“Wirt plays clarinet!” Greg replied.

“Do you now?” Endicott.

A grumbling answer. “Yeah, I play some.”

 _Dammit._ Wirt was definitely with them.

Not now. Beatrice definitely did not want to see Wirt now. The voices were growing louder, which meant they were walking towards her. Could she hide at the top of the grandfather clock? No, she was too exposed. Any one of them could easily see her. Panicking, Beatrice flew down the second hallway and entered a room with open entryways rather than doors. It resembled a sitting room, with sofas and a fireplace.

And an armoire—with its door slightly ajar.

Thanking whatever higher power granted her this hiding place, Beatrice hurriedly flew into the armoire. _There_ , she thought. No way would anyone find her. No one would expect a bluebird to open an armoire, let alone hide in one. Satisfied with herself, she nestled in the far right corner. Waiting until nightfall would be tedious and challenging, but worth the chance not to speak to Wirt for another few hours. She could be by herself, lost in her own thoughts, letting her disdain for the adolescent boy simmer into a mild dislike. She heard the faint voices of Endicott outside as he pointed out various objects and people. “This was my great-grandfather’s favorite landscape, though I don’t know why.”

“It’s all green.”

“Precisely! Not even a flower! Just green grass! Well, come along now. I ought to show you the arboretum.”

Beatrice held her breath as she waited for Endicott to lead the three away. Endicott’s voice grew softer and softer until she could no longer hear it. Content, she returned to the ponderings she conjured up just moments before, enraptured with the casual daydream concerning her family and a pleasantly sweet spring day, when the door to the armoire creaked open, and a stream of light filled in.

Stunned, Beatrice watched as a foot hoisted itself into the armoire’s interior space.

It was Wirt.

Had he seen her? No, he must not have—he burrowed himself in the opposite side of the armoire, and shut the door tightly so no light danced through. Beatrice could not even see the outlines of the few clothing hanging above her. Wirt gave a sigh of relief.

 _Oh great_. She was stuck inside an armoire with the last person with whom she wanted to be stuck inside an armoire. Was he hiding from her as well? Or Greg and Endicott? Either way, clever Wirt. It panged Beatrice to admit that in her own mind.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m just a boat upon a winding river, twisting toward an endless black sea, further and further, drifting away from where I want to be—who I want to be.”

At first, she thought Wirt had seen her. Luckily not. It was Wirt reciting his dorky poetry. Beatrice internally gagged at this. Good thing he had no idea she was in this armoire with him.

Unfortunately, though, he was determined to stick it out. Just like her.

Time passed. Maybe twenty minutes? Maybe longer? Total silence and anticipation were not a good mix. Beatrice entertained the idea of leaving and deal with the repercussions later, but shot it down once she realized her wings were too weak to push back the armoire doors. She now cursed that higher power from before, and glared in Wirt’s direction. Not that he could see her, and not that she could see him.

“Yeah, I’m thinking of camping out in here, too,” she piped up.

Wirt let out a scream, but not a particularly loud once. “Beatrice? I can’t see you.”

“It’s pretty dark in here, that’s for sure.”

“I guess you’re hiding from me.”

“Yup. And you’re hiding from _me_.”

“Not just you. Endicott and Greg, too. Endicott wanted to show us around this place, and at first it was fine, but he’s so odd and I didn’t want them to come looking for me. I thought this was a good idea.” He stopped for a beat. “You’ve been in here this whole time?”

“Maybe about five or seven minutes before you waltzed in.”

“And you’re a bird right now?”

“Well, if I were a human, I don’t think there’d be space for the two of us.”

Beatrice could hear Wirt softly groan at her quip.

“So…” she started. “I…guess we should talk.”

“Fine with me. Let’s talk.”

_Well aren’t you bitter?_

Beatrice opened her beak, but refrained from speaking. She promised Greg she would speak with Wirt, but what were they supposed to talk about? Her curse? Her anger with him because he had not listened to her when she asked him to leave her alone?

“Uh, can you start with the talking? I don’t know where to begin.”

Another moan escaped from Wirt. “Let’s begin with you being a human,” he said, irritated. “Or a bird who happens to turn into a human?”

“I’m a human cursed to be a bluebird.”

“But you turn into a human at night?”

“Every other night.”

“Why?”

“Back in the early spring I threw a rock at a bluebird. Next day, I was cursed to be a bluebird who turned human every second night. Same with my family, although their times for being human don’t coincide.”

Wirt took longer to respond. “How’d it happen? The curse, I mean.”

Beatrice did her best to remain didactic and informative. She was not seeking Wirt’s pity. “At the time, I thought it was just some enchanted bluebird. I had a dream that night telling me I was to pay for my damage, and the next morning my family and I were all bluebirds. I wasn’t too wrong about the enchanted bluebird thing, though. I found out later that it was Adelaide’s own bluebird. I caused harm to her and her pet, so harm comes to me and my family.”

She received Wirt’s pity anyways. “Oh. That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

Beatrice ignored the mushiness inside of her. “I left them—my family, I mean—so I could find a way to break the curse. I hadn’t found much luck. Until recently, I guess.”

She could easily picture the epiphany Wirt was experiencing. “Wait—those scissors—that’s what you need them for? To break the curse?”

She nearly nodded before realizing the darkness would mask the action. “I spent _months_ searching for anything that would help, but nothing came up. Then that night I was stuck at Adelaide’s, she realized it was me who hurt her bluebird, and she wanted to keep me as a replacement. “She kept going on about the only thing that could ever break my curse was a pair of stork scissors. Cut the wings of the damned. I didn’t know she had a pair, though. So when I saw you had them, well—”

“I was suddenly useful?” Wirt smirked.

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Beatrice grumbled.

“Wait. If you turned into a human last night, then did you turn into a human the night you escaped?”

“Yes.”

“That makes more sense now. You said you flew with your sprained wing, but Adelaide’s house was too far for that to be plausible.” A moment of quiet passed. “What about when you were human? Was your arm sprained, too?”

“Yep. Adelaide had some magic ointment she used before I found out who she really was.”

“Okay, so you escaped—how, by the way?”

“Oh, I sawed the yarn against some of the tree bark. That was hard with a sprained arm, and it was on my ankle, but I did it.”

“Okay…you fled looking for that town—”

“Pottsfield, and I got very lost.”

“And you came across Adelaide’s house—”

“I didn’t know who she was.”

“But she knew you because you threw the rock at her bluebird.”

“Which is weird because I didn’t actually _see_ her near the bluebird, but I guess it’s some wacko witch thing.”

This time, the silence was deafening.

After what felt like six hours instead of six seconds, Beatrice heard Wirt inhale. “Why would you want to keep that stuff secret?” he asked. She disliked the way his voice sounded. Sympathetic. Confused. Kind of miffed.

“Because I…” she started, but let her words trail off. Did she have a good excuse to give? She could give a half-truth, but at this point, it would feel like another lie. If she were engaging in honesty hour with Wirt, then would it not be better for her to tell the whole truth? Logically, yes, although emotionally, no. Beatrice hated coming across as “soft.”

“Because it reminds me of the burden,” she confessed after taking a moment to mull over it.

Wirt must have recognized the defeat in her voice because he was muted for several seconds.

Should she say more? No—that was all she needed to say. Wirt understood her, despite the black obscurity between them.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. That was long before you and Greg crossed the Garden Wall.”

“But why wouldn’t you go back with me to the tavern? We would’ve worked something out.”

 _Because you didn’t listen to me!_ Beatrice wanted to scream, but she opted for a calmer response. “I was planning on sleeping the stables last night, but then he came in.”

“He?”

 _Oh crap_. She let out a can of worms. Except she had to continue on; there was no turning back the conversation now.

“The Woodsman. I couldn’t see him underneath your hat, but I heard the tavern lady call him that.”

“That man in the tavern last night? What about him?”

Beatrice took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before beginning. This was what she wanted to avoid. “We think he works for the Beast.”

Wirt’s voice became cocky. “I thought you said the Beast was just some legend made up to keep children from going out at night.”

“It is, technically,” she stated, keeping her irritation with him from exposing itself. “No one really knows what the Beast is, we just know it exists. It preys on lost souls and children.” She added after a beat, “Especially those from over the wall.”

For a split second, even in the darkness, Beatrice swore she saw the faint outline of Wirt’s jaw dropping.

“It’s been around for as long as anyone can remember,” she continued warily, not waiting for Wirt to give a response, “and again, no one really knows how it does it, but somehow the Beast stays alive from all the wandering souls. Something to do with the Edelwoods.”

“Those are the weird trees, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. If you remember that one song from last night about the Beast—that’s the best guess anyone has. The Edelwoods secrete some kind of oily substance, and Edelwoods only pop up when a soul is lost. But we think the Woodsman helps the Beast. No one has actual proof, it’s a bunch of hearsay, but he’s gotten reclusive. I remember when I was younger, he usually sold lumber and firelogs during the autumn and winter markets, but in the last two years, he hasn’t shown up. And people always see him near Edelwoods. No one goes near Edelwoods by choice.”

“Seriously, this _has_ to be a dream,” Wirt muttered, most likely to himself.

Beatrice inched herself closer towards Wirt’s side. She felt his shoe, then stuck her beak into his shin.

“ _Ow!_ What was that for?”

“To prove you’re not dreaming.”

“I _know_ I’m not dreaming.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes out of reflex.

“Beatrice?” Wirt piped up. He sounded small, almost guilty.

“Yes?”

“We’re in a closet.”

She wished she could smile at him.

Wirt pushed the door open and exited the armoire. As he took a seat on one of the sofas in the parlor, she noticed he was wearing what must have been Endicott’s old clothing. He had to be processing everything she relayed to him, probably still trying to convince himself he was dreaming. Beatrice perched herself on the space next to him.

“I’m sorry I lied, Wirt,” she admitted after several seconds.

“It’s okay.”

“No it’s not okay. You shouldn’t say that because it implies I can do it again, and you’ll be more of a pushover. You should say ‘I accept your apology.’”

Wirt side-eyed her. “You know what I mean.” But he added shortly after, “I accept your apology. But I should apologize to you, too. I shouldn’t have forced you to join us. I didn’t know you were a human, but still, I shouldn’t have done it. I get it if you want to take the scissors and leave.”

“ _Thank you for the apology_ ,” Beatrice stated as example. Wirt scowled at her. “But I’ll keep the deal. Let the scissors be my award for returning the two of you, I guess.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I keep to my word the best I can,” Beatrice remarked pointedly. “And also for Greg. It wouldn’t sit right with me abandoning you two and having you get lost. ” Also the threat of the Beast, but that was the white elephant in the room.

“You didn’t have a problem abandoning us the night you escaped.”

“Hey, I wanted to send someone to tell you how to go to the wall, but obviously that derailed.”

Wirt glowered at her, but she could tell it was not meant to be serious. “It doesn’t matter now. We’re going to stay with Endicott and Margueritte for a few more days.”

“Why’s that?”

“There’s a ferry close by, but it only operates weekly, and the next boat doesn’t go out again until later. It’s supposed to cut travel time to the wall by half.”

“Oh, the McLaughlin Brothers ferry!” Beatrice exclaimed. “I used to ride that with my family when I was younger, especially to go to the markets. I forgot all about it. They’re right—it should bring us closer to the wall.”

Wirt nodded. “Whatever will get us back.” His tone was rather apathetic—or maybe it was acceptance?

“Speaking of getting back,” Beatrice thought aloud, “do you think we should navigate our way through this maze? Margueritte left me worms in my room and I’m getting kind of hungry.”

“Oh, yeah, sure thing. And Greg; I guess we should find him and tell him we talked.”

Wirt stood up, then held out his hands. Taking this as an offer, Beatrice stepped into the cup they formed. Wirt raised her up, and she graciously moved from his hands so she could situate herself on the curve of his shoulder. For once, it was nice to sit next to Wirt’s face without utter scorn just at the thought of him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a taxing chapter to write! Not much by way of author's commentary, but Greg sums up my feelings about breakfast food.
> 
> Poetry credit: OTGW (chapter one, "The Old Grist Mill")


	11. Sleepover

As he listened to Beatrice talk in the wardrobe, Wirt’s mind ran laps with all the questions he had for her. He refrained from asking them all because he was already suffering from an information overload, and doubted Beatrice would want to go into specific, nitty-gritty details. _Because it reminds me of the burden_. The words were simple, but they carried so much weight. In the darkness, Wirt’s heart dropped, and he was already chastising himself for ever thinking Beatrice was an item to pass along. Beatrice was harshly frank, mean, and an unapologetic potty mouth. But she was, as Wirt learned, human, with her own regrets, flaws, and insecurities. Astonishment struck when he heard she would stay with him and Greg, uphold her end of the bargain as originally planned. At this point, she had no reason to do so. While he and the bird attempted to navigate themselves through the Endicott-Grey labyrinth, it occurred to Wirt that maybe Beatrice saw their deal as a step towards doing right (though, the Beast might have played a part in her decision as well).

So, Beatrice had redeemable qualities after all.

Although they never found Beatrice’s room, they met up with Endicott and Greg in a long hallway (“It’s called a long _gallery_ ,” Wirt informed. “You’re such a nerd,” she responded. Despite the heart-to-heart in the closet, Beatrice was not letting go of her sardonic demeanor any time soon). And so the rest of the day passed like any other rainy day spent holed up inside—uneventfully. For a late lunch, Endicott led them to a different dining room in his wing, and time spent between lunch and dinner mostly consisted of extra talk time with Endicott and Margueritte. A bountiful dinner was served (and for Beatrice, she had a second helping of her specially prepared worm-and-maggot medley from lunch), and the five played fireside games before the couple announced they were retiring for bed. The brothers and the bluebird took this as a sign that they as well should go to sleep.

“Good night, Beatrice!” Greg wished when the brothers dropped the bird off in a beautiful room in Margueritte’s wing.

“Same for you, Greg,” Beatrice returned. She settled in the dead-center of the bed. Wirt laughed at the sight of the tiny bluebird having an entire bed to herself, let alone an entire room that was nearly twice the size of his own bedroom over the wall.

Beatrice turned her head towards him. “What’s so funny?” she snapped.

“Well, you’re a bird, and you have this whole room to yourself.”

He expected her to respond with something along the lines of _what’s your point_? He was pleasantly surprised when Beatrice gave off her own bluebird version of a gentle laugh. “Yeah, I guess it looks weird for tiny ol’ me to be staying this massive room.”

Wirt said his good night before closing the bedroom door behind him as he and Greg exited the room. “Thanks for talking to Beatrice,” Greg piped up as he led Wirt to their own rooms in Endicott’s wing.

“Oh…um, sure thing,” Wirt acknowledged.

“Isn’t Beatrice pretty as a human?”

“She wasn’t human today, Greg.”

“I _knooow_ ,” Greg dragged out. “But she was last night, and we were with her. Don’t you think she’s pretty?”

Wirt tried imagining Beatrice’s human form, but his picture of her human appearance was rather flimsy. He never got a proper look at the human Beatrice from two nights before. The rain prevented him from a clear view, and during the time spent in Endicott’s carriage, they were too angry to even look at one another in passing. He remembered a blue dress, wet hair (maybe brown?), and a pointy nose, but that was it. “I didn’t get a really good look at her,” Wirt mumbled. He would rather not ask Greg about what Beatrice looked like, but he knew Greg would tell him anyways.

“Oh, well, she’s _really_ pretty. Like princess-pretty. Beatrice could be Princess of the Bluebirds. She has red hair and a _thousand_ freckles.”

Not a terribly detailed description, and Wirt willingly accepted it. Beatrice with red hair—well, as awful of a stereotype it was, it explained her hotheadedness and brash personality. His mental image was shaping up better now, though the picture of human Beatrice remained elusive. Maybe tomorrow night he would see her. Then, he could stop thinking of Beatrice as a bluebird, and stop wondering how she looked as a human. Why did Beatrice the Cursed Human’s physical appearance matter at all?

They winded through the hallways and reached their adjacent rooms. “Sleep tighty tight, Wirt!” Greg chimed as he opened the door to his room.

“Good night,” Wirt replied softly.

* * *

The morning showed no sign of a storm from the days before. The sun shone in all of its brilliance, the sky cloudless and blue. A set of clean clothes were placed at the desk again, and Wirt shed his nightgown for the trousers and shirt. Although Greg still had to lead him to the dining room where they ate breakfast, Wirt recognized the path better than from before. Beatrice was also at breakfast, pecking at a saucer with seeds and maggots.

After breakfast, Margueritte insisted on showing the estate’s gardens to the three guests. Beatrice took her usual place on Wirt’s shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “I think Margueritte is treating me as if I’m her daughter.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“No, she’s really nice, and she’s not suffocating me. But she specially prepares bluebird meals for me. And this morning, she brought me clean a nightgown for tonight.”

Wirt was about to ask why a bluebird needed a nightgown, but stopped himself.

The gardens were just as much of a maze as the house, complete with roaming peacocks jabbing at the ground for food. Wirt decided Margueritte was more level-headed than her absent-minded husband, but he questioned how these two different people could be so in love with each other. If he had not heard Endicott’s story that night in the carriage, then Wirt would have assumed the marriage was an arrangement meant to benefit their tea companies. Maybe that was actually the case, and Endicott’s frivolity came up with the weird ghost story as a cover for those who asked.

“ _Bonjour_ , Fred!” Margueritte greeted when they approached the stables. Wirt drew his gaze from the elaborately cut and shaped hedges to Fred the Talking Horse, who hung his head over the door.

“ _Bawn-jore_ , madam,” Fred said. “I see we still have our guests.”

“Hiya, Fred!” Greg waved, then patted the horse’s muzzle.

“What about the girl? Is she still around?”

Beatrice flew from Wirt’s shoulder to the space in between Fred’s ears. “Right here, horse-face.”

“Oh! You’re a talking bluebird!”

“You’re a talking horse.”

“Touché,” the horse answered, unaffected.

“Our guests will be staying with us for a few more days so they can catch the ferry,” Margueritte stated. “I’m just showing them the exterior gardens.”

The horse turned to face Wirt. “Maybe later I can show you around myself. I know of a few spots on their land that they haven’t even seen.”

Wirt said nothing, but watched as Margueritte shot Fred an amused look. “How do you know of all these places, and not once offered to share them with Endicott and I?”

“I’d gladly share them with you, madam, but Endicott will forget them the second he sees them.”

Margueritte laughed. “ _Oui, c’est vrai._ He is quite _volage_ —flighty, I mean. Well, it’s best if we move along. Be sure to finish your work, Fred. I doubt you were able to finish it yesterday with all that rain.”

“Don’t worry, madam. This is just my lunch break.”

Wirt reached up to Fred’s ears so he could pick the bird up, but even on his tiptoes, Fred was tall enough for Beatrice to be out of reach. Fred lowered his head so Wirt could reach Beatrice, but right as his hands brushed past Fred’s ears, she flew away.

“Hey!” Wirt called out. Beatrice buzzed around him and laughed.

“Oh c’mon, it’s a joke,” she said once she perched herself on his shoulder.

Wirt patted her head, a gesture he intended to be patronizing, but in a playful manner. “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” she griped. “You better sleep with one eye open, Wirt. I’m human tonight, and I’ll kick your ass.”

“If you can find my room, that is,” Wirt smirked, though he admittedly feared Beatrice would come into his room and beat him up.

They joined Greg and Margueritte for the rest of the gardens tour before returning inside for lunch.

* * *

After dinner and another evening spent in one of the many parlors playing card games and mild chatter, Endicott and Margueritte once again declared they would be going to sleep.

Wirt glanced at the mantelpiece clock. _Nine thirty-two._ Older people generally went to bed early—Wirt expected that. What did astound him, however, was that Beatrice was still a bluebird. Throughout the evening, she said nothing about her upcoming transformation, but now that it was nearing ten P.M., it was bound to happen any time soon. It was not as if he wanted to see her transition, but he did want to be prepared in case he looked over to the bluebird suddenly a full-fledged human. Maybe she would tell them and request for him and Greg to leave and not see her. She might be comfortable with them knowing about her curse, but not with actually witnessing it (two nights ago was a fluke). He could respect that; Wirt knew all about keeping talents—or, in Beatrice’s case, burdens—hidden.

Except Beatrice kept mum even when Wirt held her in his hands as they walked back to her room, with Greg ahead of them, still acting as the leader.

“Ugh I’m not tired,” Greg groaned. “I wanna _do_ something.”

“Like what? There isn’t much we can do,” Wirt retorted.

“We could play hide and seek!”

“In this place? No way.”

“But _Wirt_ —”

“Your brother’s right,” Beatrice chipped in. “Usually I’d be all for the hide and seek, but I think this palace is too big. The game would go on too long, and we’d get lost.”

“ _I_ wouldn’t.”

“But we would,” Beatrice reminded. “Well, Wirt _definitely_ would.”

Wirt rolled his eyes.

Greg moped, but he seemed to have gotten over it. “Hey, I know! Let’s have a slumber party!”

“A what?”

“A slumber party! Only there is no slumbering! It’s an all-night party.”

Beatrice looked back at Wirt for clarification. “Greg explained it best, really.”

“Oh,” Beatrice murmured.

“It’ll be fun! We can talk and have pillow fights and play with Harold the Frog and eat buckets of ice cream—”

Greg’s tangents muffled once Wirt clasped a hand against the boy’s mouth, with Beatrice cupped entirely in the spare one. “That’s all fine and dandy, but I think Beatrice wants to be alone. At least for tonight.” He felt a moisture against his palm and pulled his hand away. “Eww, Greg!”

“Why would you want to be alone, Beatrice?” Greg chirped as he walked backwards so he could face Wirt and Beatrice. “Don’t you become a human tonight?”

“I do,” she confirmed.

“So wouldn’t you—”

“Greg!”

“No, it’s fine,” Beatrice interrupted. “I…I don’t mind. We can have that slumber party, Greg, if you want. I’m not sleepy at all, anyways.”

Greg, with Harold in hand, jumped as high as his little legs allowed him to. “Hooray!” he decreed.

When the three of them reached Beatrice’s bedroom, Greg darted in and began to bounce on her bed. Wirt brought her up to his face. “You don’t have to go through with this. I can just take him back to his room.”

“Really, it’s okay. The two of you have already seen me as a human.”

Wirt puckered his lips at her words, but decided not to press further. She was either being honest or putting up a good face for Greg’s sake, it was hard to judge from her expression and tone alone. Considering all  she had confessed the day before, however, Wirt speculated that Beatrice was only being considerate to Greg. Or maybe it was both—if that was possible?

Beatrice flew to the bed and plopped herself on one of the corners. “So, what can we do at this slumber party?”

“Let’s think of different names for Harold. ‘Harold’ isn’t a good frog name,” Greg suggested as he jumped up and down. The frog had made a spot for himself near the pillows, safe from Greg’s feet and clenched hands.

“Johnny,” Beatrice said.

“Laaaaaame. C’mon Wirt, join the party!”

Wirt sighed and approached the bed, listening as his brother and Beatrice exchanged different names for the unconcerned frog. Once in a while, he offered his own names, but Greg continuously rejected them. Why the frog needed a name, Wirt had no clue—but this was Greg, and there was no stopping Greg once an idea occupied his mind.

“I think we have to put this name game on hold,” Beatrice chirped after nearly thirty names were recommended between the three, and promptly discarded.

Greg stopped his jumping with a giant plop against the bed’s mattress, signaling his disappointment. “Aww, I thought we were on to something with Kenneth.”

Wirt watched as Beatrice folded her wings around her bluebird body, a little blue cannonball on the pristine sheets. “Wait—are you going to change now?” he panicked, but Beatrice gave no response. The hands of the bedroom clock pointed to _ten-fourteen P.M._

All was quiet as he observed Beatrice’s transformation, awestruck. Even Greg was frozen. Wirt expected a blinding white light to accompany her transition, but instead he watched her gradual metamorphosis, a time lapse of bluebird-to-human change. Quite a haunting and fascinating sight, to watch Beatrice become who she really was. The thin bird legs elongated over the edge of the bed, a wash of white fabric draped over them. The wings also lengthened, but tapered into the familiar human arms and hands. He could not see her head as a bluebird, but a shock of auburn hair assembled in an unkempt bun sprouted at the top, kept in place with a cornflower blue ribbon.

She dropped her arms to her sides and brought her face up. Round, doe-like blue eyes gawked up at him, giving off the pretense of innocence and _ingénue_ naiveté, which did not reflect Beatrice’s personality by any means. Splashed across her face were hundreds of freckles, most of them congregated across her cheekbones and the concave bridge of her nose. The tip of her nose curled upwards, and her lips were thin. He noticed freckles also adorned her neck, collarbone, and arms. He assumed that the red and brown spots were all over her body.

Just thinking about the unexposed parts of Beatrice’s body, however, caused a pang in his gut. His cheeks and the tips of his ears flushed crimson.

“See? Isn’t she pretty?”

“W-what?” Wirt stuttered as he directed his attention to Greg. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Beatrice sneering at him in anticipation for his answer, but he ignored the stare. “Oh, um, yeah. You’re pretty, Beatrice.” The words were supposed to come out firm and matter-of-fact so as to hide the odd embarrassment inside of him, but they faltered him, and his tone sounded more like a weird hybrid of sarcasm and dishonesty.

And truth be told, he _was_ lying.

Because Beatrice was ravishing.

_Wow, okay, that’s some bodice-ripping novel vocabulary right there, Wirt. Beatrice isn’t ravishing—except she is, but…that’s not the right word! Beatrice is…well, beautiful is such a cliché, isn’t it? She’s more than pretty. And she is beautiful—_

“Thanks Wirt,” Beatrice’s voice disrupted his thoughts, although she might as well have said, _yeah, whatever_. She stood up and walked towards a soft gray armchair in the corner, where an immaculately white nightgown sprawled out over the back of the chair. Wirt studied her—objectively, for sure—from her bare feet to the crown of her head. She was taller than him by at least an inch, maybe even two or three. He scowled. _Of course_ Beatrice was taller than him. Even if they squared away their frustrations with each other, she was bound to notice their height difference and make frequent jokes at his expense.

“Umm, you guys, I’m going to change into this nightgown. Can you turn around or something?”

“What?” Wirt spat out. “Oh, um, yeah. Turn around, Greg.”

“Okey-dokey!”

They sat on the bed and faced the headboard. Wirt could hear the swish of fabric behind him, but he tried to block away the image of a nearly naked Beatrice slipping another nightgown over her figure. Wrapped up in forced thoughts of how far he could name the American presidents in chronological order, he yelped when his vision went dark. “Hey!” he shouted, but Beatrice’s hands stayed put as he tried to pry them off of him. They were soft and slightly cold, but soothed him with the touch of her skin— _wait, am I burning up_? He heard Greg’s laughing as he squirmed to free himself from Beatrice’s clutches, and intuitively dug his fingernails into Beatrice’s skin.

“ _Ouch_! What the hell?” Beatrice cried, pulling away her hands. Wirt turned around and smirked at her, but the smug smile quickly fell from his face when the girl lunged at him, fists lightly pummeling him.

“Hey—ow! What’re you doing?!” Wirt screeched as Beatrice resumed her boxing practice.

“I have four brothers, this is what we did all the time!” she explained, but she showed no sign of letting up. “You’ve never horsed around?”

“No, Greg and I don’t do that!” Wirt tried to escape from Beatrice’s playful fury, but she was relentless. “Stop it!”

“Make me,” Beatrice retorted.

Wirt grimaced, but instinct guided him. Using both of his hands, he grasped a hold of Beatrice’s left wrist before her knuckles could knock itself into his arm. However, despite being slightly caught off guard—as seen in her broadened eyes—Beatrice used her free hand to face-palm Wirt. She wriggled the captive arm in attempts to shake him off, but Wirt held on as tightly as he could.

“Let. Go!” Beatrice grumbled. She struggled to bring the caught arm back towards her core, then twisted her body. She dropped the hand that palmed Wirt’s face, but Wirt remained attached to the other arm, causing him to follow her twisting motion until it began to cramp his own limbs.

But he was not going to let Beatrice get off so easily. He pushed forwards, bringing her—and him—down to the floor. Beatrice crawled away so she could start standing up, but Wirt pulled her down again. “Wirt!” she gasped as she tumbled back to the floor, limbs flailing in hopes of knocking him away from her so she could flee once again. In the distance, Greg cheered both of them on. Wirt tried to hold her arms down, but Beatrice—with years of horseplay experience and far more agility than Wirt could ever dream of possessing—was able to dodge a few of his grabbing hands. At one point, she clutched onto him and rolled him over, then caught a hold of his forearms and pushed him flat on his back, allowing for her to gain the upper hold. The back-and-forth roughhousing persisted—twisting, gripping, blocking, wriggling ( _exasperating_ )—until Beatrice clenched onto both of Wirt’s wrists and held them firmly against the floor above Wirt’s head.

“Ha ha! I win!” she bragged.

Maybe he was supposed to be upset over the outcome and disappointed in himself (and that Greg was a spectator), but Wirt felt neither of those. Instead, he noticed just how trapped he felt. Beatrice’s hands pinned his arms over his head, the pressure of her legs straddled his hips, her torso hovered over his, not quite pressed against him but still in contact. Her face was close to his—so close he could see flecks of green in her blue irises ( _I met a lady in the meads,/Full beautiful—a faery’s child,/Her hair was long, her foot was light,/And her eyes were wild)_. The loose strands of her red hair cascaded past her face and curtained his view. Blue gaze held brown, and her self-assured grin drooped. Mesmerized in the silence, an unfamiliar sensation—comfortable but also not at all—bobbed up and down in Wirt’s chest.

This was the most physical contact he ever had with a girl. A girl who was not his mother. A girl who was not _Sara._ The closest he ever got to Sara was the occasional forearm brush when he walked next to her, and that was enough to send his heart rate soaring high.

_This is weird._ Not even the abrupt burst of Greg coughing broke the strange tension.

“Umm, Beatrice?” he finally said, though the words were submissive, trembling, and hardly above a hoarse whisper.

“Yeah?”

“You can…get off now.”

“What?” she flicked her eyes upwards. “Oh, right.” She let go of his wrists and rolled off of him. Wirt lingered with his back on the floor, his eyes fixated on the ceiling above him. His mind raced in attempts to process what had just transpired, but he was cut short when Beatrice’s extended hand disrupted his endless stare up at the ceiling. “Need some help?”

Wirt lifted his arm and situated his hand in Beatrice’s so she could pull him up. On his feet, Wirt adjusted his clothing and smoothed his hair, his eyes on the floor or off to the side. He would rather not spend any time looking at Beatrice in the face, at least, not in this moment. _It’s just hormones, and puberty. You’re fifteen. This is natural. Doesn’t mean anything._ In his periphery, he saw Beatrice sit on her bed, close to where Greg splayed himself. From the eruption of Greg’s laughter, Wirt looked up to see she was now tickling Greg. He interpreted this as an opportunity for him to safely sit on the bed without any peculiar sensations rising up within him.

Because this was Beatrice, not Sara. Beatrice was aesthetically pleasing, but her standoffish personality detracted from her beauty.

“Okay okay!” Greg squirmed away. “Beatrice, you are the Almighty Tickler and Princess of the Bluebirds. I bow down before your presence.” Closer to Wirt now, Greg sat on his knees and bowed to Beatrice. She giggled at this. Wirt smiled as well, then lightly pinched his brother’s waist. Greg squeaked and turned onto his back. “No fair! You can’t team up with Beatrice.”

Wirt held up his hands. “Fine, fine, I think we should stop the physical stuff anyways.”

“And do what?” Beatrice snorted. Her hair was loose, now; the long red waves cascaded over her shoulders and reached her mid-torso. She ran a hand through the top of the scalp, disorganizing her hair even more.

Wirt gulped. “Well, um, we could, uh…”

“Any day now would be great.”

“I know!” Greg butted in. “Let’s stay up _aaaaaall_ night—”

“Aren’t we doing that already?” Beatrice pointed out.

“Let me finish!” Greg snapped. “Let’s stay up _aaaaaaall_ night so we can see you turn back into a bluebird!”

Beatrice pulled her hair back and started to braid it into a single, long tail. She hid any signs of reluctance. “That happens with the sunrise. Can you even stay up that late?”

“I haven’t tried, but I’m not sleepy _at all_!” Greg replied with gusto.

Wirt groaned internally. In his continuing high school career, he never attempted an all-nighter. He preferred sleeping a full eight hours or more, and even now, his eyes were wearied, almost as if they were ready to pop out of their sockets. But he was still unsure of how to go to his room in Endicott’s wing without Greg to aide him, and Beatrice would most definitely mock him for not putting himself up to the task.

“I accept your challenge,” he huffed as much confidence he could muster up, chest puffed out and chin high. He dropped to his slouch not even a second later, and mentally denounced the prideful stance as silly.

“It’s eleven-oh-five now. We’ve got a while,” Beatrice declared. “So how exactly are we going to pass the time?”

Greg inhaled sharply. “ _Cannonballs on the bed—”_

“Let’s _not_ do that,” Wirt interrupted. “That’ll only make us tired. Why don’t we just…I don’t know…talk?”

Beatrice and Greg both shot him looks with raised eyebrows and pursed lips. “Talk? For seven-something hours? About what?” Beatrice questioned.

“Anything. Open-ended topics.” He fiddled his hands in his lap. “Like, uh, you said you had four brothers.” Wirt bit his lip, reprimanding himself at the mention of a topic Beatrice probably would not want to talk about in detail.

Except Beatrice shrugged it off. “Yeah. Frederick, Phillip, Nathaniel, and Calvin. Then I have three sisters. The twins, Anne and Lucy, and then Elizabeth. I’m the oldest.”

“You’re the oldest of eight? That must be tiresome. I can barely keep up with Greg.”

“You love me,” Greg retorted.

Before Wirt could make a remark, Beatrice beat him to it. “It was a handful, but it wasn’t so bad. The only ones to worry about were Calvin and Elizabeth. They were the youngest ones.”

He noticed she was speaking in the past tense. He knew why, but he thought it was unnecessary. Nevertheless, he was not going to point it out to her.

Before long, however, Beatrice began to talk about each of her siblings, describing their individual personalities and various stories from over the years. Wirt caught her smiling at several moments, whether it was about her brother Nathaniel picking blackberries one summer and neglecting to notice the thorns on the vines, or how Anne and Lucy liked to play practical jokes on their parents and pretend to be one another. Her eyes shone luminously as she rambled, moving on from her four brothers and three sisters to her two parents—her father, Alexander, a grain miller, and her mother, Jane, an avid gardener and amateur botanist. Beatrice’s stories were of her frustrations and her experiences, but as she continued on, Wirt could tell just how much she cared for and loved her family.

When she finished, Greg’s light snoring occupied their attentions.

“I didn’t think my stories were _that_ boring.”

“He does this all the time. He thinks he can stay up to watch a movie, but thirty minutes in he’s fast asleep. His sleeping habits are totally random.”

Beatrice chuckled. “Well you’ve already won this contest.”

“It’s not even twelve-thirty.”

“You don’t _have_ to stay up, you know. You can go back to your room.”

“I don’t know how to get there without Greg.”

“Fair point. This place is huge.”

Wirt nodded in agreement. “Maybe if I go now, I can get back to my room by sunrise.” The joke came out flat, and he scolded himself for his lack of conveying humor.

Beatrice shrugged. “I don’t really care if you stay or not, Wirt.” Her words were not acidic, but they sounded indifferent.

“So, uh, tell me more about yourself.” It felt forced, especially after such uncaring words (the Beatrice he first knew was still present, regardless of tragic curses and attitude).

Beatrice raised an eyebrow at him. “There’s not much about me to know, really. I’m sixteen years old, I’m the oldest of eight siblings, my father is a miller, and I’m cursed to be a bluebird most of the time. That’s the autobiography of Beatrice Mary Fraser.”

“‘Fraser?’” Wirt repeated. “That’s your last name?” She nodded. It was a Scottish last name, but Beatrice did not speak with a Scottish accent. Not that it mattered, but Wirt began to wonder how genealogy worked in this realm existing over the Garden Wall. Margueritte was French herself (or maybe Québeçoise, but her accent was more European than French Canadian), and Endicott came across as distinctly English rather than American.

“What’s your last name?” Beatrice asked. Her tone was genuinely curious—a contrast to the unemotional responses from before.

“Forman. My middle name is Samuel.”

“Wirt Samuel Forman.” She paused; Wirt assumed she mulled over the way it sounded. “It fits you.”

“Does it?” Her words struck him deep in the chest. “I’ve always felt out of place with it. I’m the only Forman in the house.”

“Greg isn’t a ‘Forman,’ too?”

“No, he’s a ‘Schmidt.’ Gregory Christopher Schmidt.”

“Oh, I forgot. He’s only your half-brother.”

Wirt nodded. “My parents divorced when I was four.”

Beatrice opened her mouth, her brows low and eyes narrowed. “Divorced?! That’s awful!”

At first, Wirt thought she was referring to his parents’ divorce specifically, but realized she was also speaking about the general concept of divorce. Divorce was probably uncommon in these parts, much like centuries before on his side. “Oh, no, it’s not bad. Divorce is kind of common where I’m from.”

“Just like that? Failed marriages are normal where you are from?”

He shrugged. _Failed_ was not the word he would use, but he accepted it only to simplify the concept to Beatrice. “Yeah. I don’t know how to explain _why_. I’m not ‘adult-y’ enough to get it, I guess.”

“Do you see your father, at least?”

“At least twice a year—”

“ _Twice a year_?”

“It’s really not that bad. I mean, it _was_ , when I was younger. I didn’t understand what was going on, why I saw him less, but now I get it. He has a job that requires him to travel a lot, so it’s not like I can see him regularly. I do get to see him around my birthday, and one major holiday. And he phone calls once every two weeks—” he noticed Beatrice’s confused glare at the phrase _phone calls_ , “oh, it’s an instant communication system. But, yeah. My dad and I talk.”

“And you aren’t upset with him?”

Wirt sighed. “No. He can be inattentive and kind of out of touch, but he’s not a deadbeat or a criminal. He always pays his child support and alimony on time.” He scratched the back of his head. “David Forman isn’t the best dad in the world, but I could’ve had worse.”

“What about Greg’s father—James?”

“John,” Wirt corrected. “He and my mom—oh, her name is Ruth—well, they met when I was five, and got married right before I turned seven. Then Greg came along. He’s…nice. We…” _get along_ was not the phrase Wirt preferred to describe the complex (and yet utterly simple) step-father-and-son relationship he and John possessed. “We peacefully coexist. But he’s always bothering me about joining marching band—” Beatrice gave another puzzled look, but this time, Wirt ignored it for the sake of moving the conversation along, “and he’s really goofy. I think he tries to be more of my friend than a substitute parent. It’s not working. Oh, that cape I have? It’s his. He’s a historical reenactor.”

“A reenactor? Of what?”

Wirt glanced at Beatrice.

“Do you know anything about where Greg and I come from?”

“You didn’t know anything about this side of the Garden Wall.”

_Touché._ “That’s because we’re told to stay away from the wall.”

“Same here.”

“I can sort of see why.” However, none of the stories mentioned magic, or people who lived on this side, or talking animals, or lack of plumbing and electricity. They only referred to a few who did cross and never returned. “We don’t have cursed talking blue birds on my side,” he joked. Beatrice rolled her eyes and smacked his upper arm. “Hey, c’mon, that was meant to be funny.”

“I know. You’re shitty at jokes.”

Wirt scowled. That was a question he planned on asking her later on. Why did she swear so often, especially if she had younger siblings? He could not bring himself to question her just yet, however. They sat in an odd silence—not awkward, but not comfortable, either—for a few seconds. The confusing hormones from before subsided, _which is good_. Beatrice might be gorgeous, but her personality was not. Sara was not brash and insensitive. Her exterior matched her interior.

“Will you tell me about where you come from?” Beatrice spoke up. Her voice was mild and tender, nothing at all like her.

“Um, sure. What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“ _Everything_?”

“As much as you can tell me, whatever you remember. I don’t know of anyone who ever went over the wall to your side, and if anyone did, they didn’t come back.”

“You never climbed it to see yourself?” Beatrice struck him as the kind of rambunctious spirit who would at least peek over the top just for a glimpse of what was hidden. Like Sara. _Beatrice and Sara are nothing alike. Not in the slightest. Except they’re both pretty girls. That’s it._

Beatrice lounged her back against the surplus of pillows on her bed, then she shrugged. She looked up to the bed’s canopy. “Before the curse, the farthest from home I went was to the markets. I’ve seen it—the wall, I mean—a few times. I went to that meadow once with the butcher’s son.” She then snapped her sight back to Wirt; the abruptness made him flinch. “I’ve always been curious.”

A weighty exhale escaped from Wirt’s lungs and mouth as he racked his brain of where to start. He already used the _We don’t have cursed talking bluebirds_ line, and any other attempts at a starting joke would be received poorly. With no clear path or guidance, Wirt shared details of life on his and Greg’s side of the wall, beginning with his suburban hometown and what it looked like. He explained the various forms of transportation, from bicycles and vehicles to trains and airplanes—“to fly, like birds, but farther distances.” The discussion quickly turned towards means of communication, fast and instant. There were _so many things_ about his side, but Beatrice listened, attentive and equipped with a follow-up or starting question.

“Just like that? Food prepared for you within five minutes?” she asked as soon as he finished the segment about fast food and take out.

“Yeah. It’s the same with clothing. We just buy it at a store, pre-made and everything.” Beatrice’s eyes widened. “Oh, that’s another thing. Fashion and styles are different—simpler, I think. Girls can wear pants if they want.”

“Pants? Like trousers?” He nodded in response to her scrunched-up face. “But that’s ridiculous. They’re girls.”

Wirt frowned. He thought Beatrice would like that factoid—that she would want to wear pants because they were easier to run around in. He began to explain the complexities of gender and how traditional gender roles were in the process of deconstruction, at which Beatrice smiled. She still seemed unconvinced about the “girls wear pants” concept, but she let it drop once so Wirt could resume and move on to other aspects.   

When Wirt finished with a lengthy conversation about forms of entertainment like movies and television, he noticed Beatrice’s eyelids were shut. “Are you awake?” he murmured.

“Yes, I am,” she said, slow and soft, though her eyes remained closed. The clock read _three-thirty-six._ Wirt yawned. This was the first time he ever stayed up so late. Without thinking, Wirt squirmed himself in between Beatrice and the sleeping Greg. He sealed his own eyes and listened to the rhythmic ticking and steady breaths of Greg and Beatrice. His mind started to clear itself of all the knowledge he dumped on her in the past few hours, even his own worries and fears for the days ahead. He still had many questions about _her_ side, but fatigue prevented him from voicing any of them.

“Hey, Wirt?” Beatrice called after several minutes.

“Mmhmm?” Wirt replied.

“I’d like to see your side.”

Without a second thought, before he drifted off, he answered. “You will, Beatrice. You will.”

* * *

At seven o’clock A.M. sharp, Margueritte Grey opened the door to Beatrice’s bedroom. She was about to let out a joyous _Bonjour_ , _Béatrice_! until she saw the sight. Two sleeping boys, not wearing their nightgowns but their day clothes, and a frog. Margueritte tiptoed to the foot of the bed. A ball of blue, orange, and white nestled close to the eldest boy’s left side, undisturbed. _Tranquille._                                         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this chapter an excuse for tons of fluff? Probably ~~most definitely.~~ I gave Wirt, Greg, and Beatrice surnames based on some of my favorite fictional characters (literature and television). See if you can guess them! The middle names have no significance.
> 
> Poetry credit: "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" by John Keats (Good Lord I have wanted to use that line for so damn long)


	12. Unpredictable

Outside the gates and immersed in the trees and darkness, it walked around the perimeter of the estate at least eight times, gazing into the courtyard and gardens hungrily. “I can feel their presence,” it called to its companion, who stood several feet behind it. “It is a faint connection, but it exists. I wonder how they happened across these _bourgeois_ buffoons.”

“It must’ve been after I saw them at the tavern.”

“And they are probably planning to take the ferry towards the markets.” It growled. “That means it will be days before they set out again.” Its voice raised in anger and frustration, but softened with an extra thought as the wind blew. “Perhaps this is good. The more time they spend outside their realm, the more they will be inflicted. The less I will have to do. What do you think, Woodsman?”

The wind rustled the remaining leaves. “I suppose so. Although—”

“Although _what_? Are you having doubts again? Need I remind you—”

“This isn’t a doubt. It’s a concern, a possibility that should be considered.”

The eyes glimmered silver. “Go on, then,” it crooned.

“What if one of them is like me?”

It laughed. “No one is like you, Woodsman.”

* * *

Beatrice made several observations about Wirt throughout the night.

First, his eyes were brown. She knew this already from her previous days with him and Greg, but she never noticed the actual shade. Nearly all of her family had brown eyes. Her father, all of her brothers, the twins—their brown eyes resembled ebony wood, dark enough so Beatrice could barely determine where the iris ended and the pupil began. Wirt’s brown eyes, however, harkened to the specialty rum sold at the markets when Beatrice used to visit them with her family (she tried some once when she was thirteen, but she despised the burning aftertaste in her mouth and throat). The light brown infused with an orange, almost golden, sheen. She never imagined such a color existed in human eyes, but as she stared at him with their faces close and her hands holding his wrists against the floor in victory, she marveled at how exquisite they were. She perceived other aspects of his eyes: the hooded lids, the yellowish-purple skin underneath, the thin lines of his eyebrows, the crust tucked in the inner corners, the small eyelashes. The surrounding skin made him look tired, but the eyes themselves exuded vibrancy. When she rolled off of him and they exchanged stories, she sneaked glances to check if his eyes were just as vivid farther away as they were up close.

Second, Wirt was shorter than her. Being a bird for most of her time warped Beatrice’s physical judgments and perceptions. As a bluebird, she gathered Wirt’s stature verged on the shorter side for men, but thought he was at least her height of five feet and seven inches. As she noticed when they horsed around, she stood an extra two inches over him, and if he stood on his tiptoes, he would barely be level with her. She chose not to mock him about it—not that night, at least. But judging from unproportioned, gangly body (broad shoulders and stretched torso that contrasted with his small, lithe hands, and scrawny limbs), Beatrice assumed Wirt would skyrocket a few more inches before his adolescence finished.

Third—and lastly, the stories and explanations about where he and Greg lived enchanted her. At first Wirt stumbled, unsure of what to say and how to express them. But the more he spoke, the more eloquent and literary Wirt became. The words flowed out of him effortlessly, descriptive and without fail. Not even the bedtime stories her parents told to her siblings matched the creativity Wirt conveyed. No wonder he composed poetry. Beatrice wished she could remember the various lines he recited offhandedly during the course of their acquaintanceship. Would he ever share his own poetry with her if she requested it? Maybe not. He might think she would laugh at them (and he would have good reason for thinking this, Beatrice admitted). And, Wirt might also feel the same way about sharing his poetry as he felt about playing his clarinet to an audience other than himself. For now, his stories were enough, and she doubted he covered them all.

She looked forward to the next night.

* * *

“I was in the clouds last night.”

Beatrice, for once perched on Greg’s shoulders instead of Wirt’s, turned to stare up at him. “That sounds like a nice dream.”

“It wasn’t a dream!” Greg remarked. “I was high above the ground, and I met all these amazing people and made so many new friends. They want me to go back tonight and meet the Queen of the Clouds.”

Beatrice kept her beak sealed, not wanting to ruin his imagination and fun.

Wirt, who walked beside Greg, yawned deeply. “I shouldn’t have stayed up until three-thirty. I feel terrible.”

“You look terrible,” Beatrice fired back. Wirt stuck out his tongue at her, and she refrained from flying up to him so she could bite it. “Besides, that’s kind of rude of you to say.”

“Why’s that?”

Beatrice opened her beak, prepared to tell him just _why_ his words hurt her. _Wait, do they hurt?_ Except she would rather stay a bird forever than hear herself acknowledge what she was about to articulate. _Okay, that’s an exaggeration, Beatrice._ She would rather be speechless for the rest of her life. She closed her beak as she thought of another excuse—one which told the truth, but not _the_ truth. “It implies you didn’t like my company,” she settled, outstretching her wings and holding her bluebird head high.

“Well maybe I don’t,” Wirt smirked. She glared up at him to see a satisfied grin upon his lips. She knew he was joking (he had to be; he tolerated her enough to explain all the intricacies of his side of the Garden Wall until they fell asleep), but this time, her temper urged her to fly to his shoulder and peck his earlobe. Wirt screeched in pain as she darted ahead of them, with Greg laughing for her.

When they reached the dining room, Endicott’s jovial voice boomed and echoed off the walls. “Well, if it isn’t the sleepyheads! We were wondering when the three of you would get up and join us for breakfast! Not that sleeping in isn’t fun, I love to sleep in until the sun is over its apex, but I also love the morning and all the time I have to—”

“Do nothing?” Margueritte teased with a smile. Endicott eyed her, but his own smile indicated he enjoyed her light ribbing. “Please sit, _mes petits,_ and ignore him. He’s just anxious to share with you his ideas for the day.” Beatrice took her spot in front of the saucer with seeds and worms and pecked at her breakfast hastily.

“Oh yes!” Endicott exclaimed. “I was wondering if the three of you would like to join us in attending a fundraiser today. We were invited and it feels like a wonderful opportunity to show the boys around these parts before they head back home.”

“A fundraiser for what?” Wirt asked.

“It’s a school fundraiser—the Langtree School for Animals, where animals are taught how to read and write human languages.”

She was too busy eating her breakfast to look up and see for herself, but Beatrice took delight in imagining what shocked face Wirt could conjure up in reaction. “Whoa! Lesh go!” Greg said, his words muffled from the sound of half-chewed food still in his mouth.

“Splendid!” Endicott clapped. “I shall help Fred get ready with the carriage.”

When breakfast finished, Margueritte ushered the brothers and Beatrice out of the dining room and through the various hallways to the courtyard. They passed a young woman dressed in plain gray and white, her head kept down. She mumbled a soft “ _Bonjour, madame_ ,” to Margueritte, to which Margueritte acknowledged with a “ _Bonjour, Amity_.” In the past few days she had stayed in the Endicott-Grey palace, the young woman was the first servant Beatrice saw on the entire grounds.

Outside in the courtyard, Beatrice blinked at how decadent it was, far more than what she first glimpsed at in the nighttime rain several nights prior. Three fountains, with the largest in the center, ran down the center width—she remembered the center fountain because of its immense grandeur, but the other two were entirely new to her. Next to the basin of the right fountain, Fred and Endicott waited, harness and carriage around Fred’s back.

As the party of five rode in the carriage, Wirt cupped Beatrice in the palms of his hands. As a bluebird, Wirt held her in this manner before—yesterday evening as they walked to her room, and briefly the day before, after they spoke in the armoire. At those times, they were merely bluebird feathers and human skin, a means of flightless transportation. Now, however, the bowl created by Wirt’s palms comforted and secured Beatrice. It never occurred to her until this moment just how fragile and vulnerable she was as a bluebird. After nearly half a year—or longer?—she grew accustomed to the independence (not the freedom) and ability to fly away from danger. The sprained wing was less of a reminder and more of a nuisance. But even in such an enclosed space as Endicott and Margueritte’s carriage, the walls of Wirt’s slender fingers safeguarded her. A pleasant, reassuring sensation, one she would not confess to anyone (not even herself).

“You’ve been quiet these past few hours,” Wirt remarked as they exited the carriage. His voice lacked dripping mockery; he almost sounded concern.

“I have?” Beatrice asked, surprised at his words.

“Yeah. Is something wrong?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, now worried for herself. “Maybe I’m just exhausted from lack of sleep?” She could not tell if it was a lie or a quasi-truth. She burrowed herself deeper into Wirt’s palms. Wirt whimpered a little.

“Hey, you might not have the claws of a hawk or an eagle, but your talons _do_ hurt,” he commented, half-flippant, half-serious.

Beatrice ignored him. She examined the sight before her. Many, many people—not a swarm, but a decently-sized crowd. Music played in the background, light and folksy, reminiscent of the songs her father hummed when he worked or sang to her before she slept, and the air smelled of barbecued meats and dainty, flowery cake.

“Welcome, welcome!” a shrill female voice greeted. As Wirt spun around, Beatrice caught sight of a tall woman dressed modestly, her outfit a white blouse and a billowing brown skirt. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a bun, but not the same kind Beatrice liked to tuck hers in when she was human. “Welcome to our little fundraiser for the Langtree School for Animals. I’m Miss Langtree, the schoolteacher—” _no kidding_ , “and my students performing a selection of songs for your entertainment. Please, feel free to meander, and help yourself to the potluck.”

“I do say, that barbecue smells _delightful!_ ” Endicott cried as he sauntered off to the table with trays and bowls of food. Margueritte sighed and followed after him.

“Go along,” Fred said. “I’m quite fine by myself.”

Wirt walked forwards, with Greg in his usual spot—a yard or two ahead of him. He brushed past the other attendees and patrons, making sure to never leave sight of Greg. When Greg made a sharp turn to the right, Wirt followed suit, then stopped. With his hands held at his chest, Beatrice could only see the clothed backsides of the people in front of him. “Um, hello?” she called up to him.

“Right, sorry,” he apologized, then shifted her into one hand and hoisted it up to the top of his head. Beatrice settled into the flop of his hair, the security of his hands gone, and she could make out several animals dressed in human clothes and standing on their hind legs, playing musical instruments.

“Okay, I’m a talking bird, and this is weird to me,” she commented.

Wirt laughed. “Yeah, this…I think this tops all the weird stuff I’ve seen here.”

“Even bluebirds who turn into humans?” she joked.

“Yes, even you.”

Beatrice tried to smile before she realized her rigid beak prevented her from such an action.

That never happened before. She never tried a human action while as a bluebird, as if she forgot she was a bluebird at all.

“I think I can get a better view if I sit on Fred’s head,” she muttered imprudently, and flew out of the nest she created from Wirt’s ashen brown hair.

“Oh, okay,” Wirt’s voice called distantly, and he might have added more, but the music drowned out his voice.

When she approached Fred, the horse bowed his head to her. “Come to keep me company?” he asked.

“In a way,” Beatrice responded as she perched herself in between his ears. “I don’t want to fly to the trees for a view, but Wirt’s too short.”

Fred neighed a laugh.

Beatrice listened the music and closed her eyes.

“Oh look,” Fred called out, stirring Beatrice out of what must have been an accidental nap. The sun no longer shone at its zenith, and it cast a golden, early afternoon radiance amongst the trees. “The little boy is going to direct the musicians.”

Nestled in the tuft of his mane, Beatrice stared out onto the scene. In the distance, she saw Greg happily directing the animals to a song of his own creation. He had to have come up with it on the spot, but it was as if he spent years composing such a tune. Wirt stood with Margueritte and Endicott, his eyes glued to his brother, his mouth smiling. Wirt cared for his brother—he had to, or else the adoration and revere Beatrice witnessed now was the work of a talented actor (and she doubted Wirt was an actor, let alone a _good_ one). So why the snide, mean-spirited remarks directed at Greg? She understood annoyance with a younger siblings (she had seven of them), but Wirt’s bitterness mismatched the expression on his face at this moment. And the more she gazed, the more she analyzed. This was not only the face of pride and love; it was the face of relaxation, happiness, and bliss, free of anxiety, devoid of fear. He was still the Wirt she first met over a week ago, but somehow changed enough so it went unnoticed unless she thought carefully about it. Composure and contentment surrounded this Wirt, as opposed to the high-strung and neurotic Wirt from days ago.

She liked this Wirt, but anticipated he would disappear once they returned to the estate.

The circle of her thoughts traveled to Endicott and Margueritte, who now danced to the new music playing once Greg turned over his maestro duties to a doe in pantaloons.

“Fred?” she chirped over the music.

“Yes?” the horse answered.

“Why must Wirt and Greg wait for the ferry?” she enquired. She could have left it at that, but her curiosity won over. “Why couldn’t Margueritte and Endicott send you to take them back to the wall? It would’ve been faster than waiting for a ferry or walking the whole way back.”

The horse kept quiet for a few seconds. “None of us go to the wall, Beatrice. You should know this.”

“But why don’t we?” she burst, her limitations and boundaries tossed aside. “Does anyone know what’s so awful about the wall? Why are we told to keep away when no one really knows why? I spoke to Wirt. The other side is different, but it’s not _bad_.”

“I think it’s more than what we are capable of comprehending,” Fred said. “When I was a highwayman’s horse, helping him loot passersby, I saw the wall once. It’s odious just to look at. There’s something vile just with its existence. I can’t explain it, but I felt sick.”

Beatrice pondered over this. The one time she looked at the Garden Wall, with the butcher’s son next to her, she never felt afraid or physically ill. It was just a wall—a mysterious one, but a wall nonetheless.

“How can you speak, Fred?” she changed the subject. “You’re not cursed like me, and these animals are learning to read and write, but I don’t think they’ll even learn to speak.”

Fred neighed in amusement. “I come from the northern woods, where things are slightly different.”

The northern woods—Beatrice never went to those parts, but she heard about the various tales of travelers. It was rumored to contain more magic than the neck of the woods Beatrice grew up in.

Supposedly the Beast came from the northern woods.

The music ended, and the crowd clapped. Fred neighed as his acknowledgment. The Langtree woman walked onto the stage and stood in the center. “Thank you for coming and supporting these wonderful animals. I think we can truly make a difference in their lives.” More claps and cheers from her audience. “Yes, thank you. It’s unfortunate for me to say, but our benefit concert has concluded, and we are all out of food! But again, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for coming, and have a wonderful—”

“Wait!” a male voice rippled off in the crowd. Heads turned to find the originator, and it was not long until a blond man, mustachioed and lanky, stepped onto the stage and rushed to Langtree.

“Jimmy?” Langtree muttered loud enough for the crowd to hear. “Jimmy, what are you doing—”

“I wanted to wait to do this, but I can’t anymore. Now is the perfect time, and I’ll be damned to have an audience!” the man decreed as he kneeled onto one knee, eliciting gasps from Langtree and the crowd. “I love you, my dear. I have wanted to ask you this within a month after we began to court, but I couldn’t then. I didn’t have the money, and I was afraid you would reject me because we hardly knew each other, but I _knew_ I wanted to be with you for the rest of my life.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out what Beatrice assumed was a ring. “Will you marry me?”

Even if Langtree was mortified for such a public proposal, she never displayed it. “Yes! Oh yes, Jimmy, I’ve wanted to marry you since we began courting, too.” She grasped a hold of the ring and kissed her new fiancée once he stood on his feet.

The people clapped and hooted their congratulations, but Beatrice only simmered with qualm and aversion, a bitter aftertaste running through her veins.

* * *

They returned to the manor nearly two hours later, the afternoon still glowingly golden and ochre, with dinner expected to be ready within another hour and a half. Beatrice chose to fly about the gardens instead of immediately returning inside. However, she spent most of her time listlessly perched atop a tree branch near the rose garden, letting her mind erase itself of anything and everything in between. She opted not to go inside for dinner, and scrounged up her own insects to eat from the ground and the plants.

“Beatrice?” Margueritte’s voice echoed when the sun dropped unhurriedly to the horizon, the sky a bold, reddish-orange from its luminosity. “Beatrice?”

The silhouette of a wide skirt and tight bodice rose from the shadows, and Beatrice flew towards Margueritte, who held out her index finger once she saw the bird flying towards there. “ _Ça va?_ ”

Beatrice knew enough French to know what Margueritte asked her. “I’m okay. I just wanted to be alone for a while. I found my own dinner, so there’s no need to give me another one.”

“ _D’accord, ma petite_.” Margueritte shielded her from the evening breeze as they entered the interior of the home. “May I take you somewhere?”

“No thank you,” Beatrice rejected. She wanted to fly aimlessly down corridors and into rooms before she sought for sanctuary in her room.

So she did; Beatrice wandered down paths she vaguely remembered from her previous exploration, around corners she had no recollection of, less interested in what she saw and more content with shaking whatever foreign discomfort she experienced now. She found her bedroom by accident, and retired early to sleep.

* * *

For most of the next day, Beatrice only saw Wirt and Greg in passing—at breakfast and dinner, where she exchanged cordial formalities with them. In between those meals, she went back into the gardens so she could be alone with her thoughts. She missed her family, and being human every day instead of every second night, and eating solid foods without pecking at a flat surface. These solemn waves of rumination occurred once in a while, though Beatrice could not identify what triggered today’s funk. It differed from the peculiar indolence of yesterday when she returned from the school fundraiser. Did she want to speak with Wirt about this? Why did she avoid him yesterday evening and earlier today? _Was that what I was doing?_

Why did she wish to confide in him?

After dinner, Beatrice decided not to join Endicott and Margueritte for their daily post-dinner fireside chats and games. She lingered at the dinner table until everyone else exited the dining room, pondering over what corner of the home she could poke around.

“Beatrice?”

She jumped at the sound of her name. Wirt stood at the threshold of the dining room, cowering behind the jutting wall. She stared at him. “Yes?” she answered.

“Is something wrong? You’ve avoided us all day, and yesterday.”

Birds could not shrug, but it felt the appropriate time to do so. “I don’t know,” she responded truthfully. “I just feel off today. I just wanted to be alone, that’s all.”

Wirt hesitantly approached the edge of the table, opposite of the side where Beatrice sat. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” she let her trademark aloofness leak itself into her voice.

“You seem sad, and I’m sorry you feel sad.”

“Don’t apologize for something that has nothing to do with you,” she suggested, almost scornfully.

Wirt pressed his lips together in a line and stared down at her. The silence thickened between them, tense for no reason. He extended his hand over the table, palm facing upwards. “I have an idea,” he offered, excited and chipper. Confused, Beatrice turned her head to the side so she could side-eye him, but Wirt only inched his hand closer. “Oh c’mon, I don’t bite. I’m not you.”

“ _Ha ha_.” She plopped into his palm and his fingers clasped around her spherical body. The security from yesterday was not entirely present, but she still enjoyed the feeling of his fingers against her feathers. Wirt dashed out of the dining room and took a path Beatrice did not recognize. “Where are we going?” she complained, but Wirt shushed her and hurried along.

They passed the parlor that contained the armoire she and Wirt conversed in, and then the grandfather clock.

Wirt went further along the hallway before taking a left turn into an open door. Beatrice never saw this room, but she guessed what it was from the harpsichord placed at the dead center of the room. Other musical instruments littered around the harpsichord, some she recognized—a violin, a cello, a tuba, a trombone—and others she could not identify.

“Why are we here?” she spat, but she was genuinely curious why Wirt brought her to Endicott’s instrument storage room.

“You, Beatrice, are sad,” Wirt declared, clear and unabashed. He placed her atop the harpsichord. He searched through the various instruments, with occasional grunts and moans as he rifled—cautiously, of course. “Well,” he said, taking a pause, “I think I know how to help you feel better.” He bent down to resume his hunt. “If I can find a clarinet, that is.”

“You’re going to play the clarinet for me?” she questioned.  Should she be honored?

She _felt_ honored.

Wirt heaved a sigh. “Apparently not,” he said, disappointed. “I can’t find a clarinet. Of all the instruments Endicott has in here, he doesn’t have a clarinet. He has a _triangle_ and a _tambourine_ , but he doesn’t have a clarinet.”

Beatrice chuckled at Wirt’s contempt. “Do you know how to play any other instruments in here?”

Wirt shook his head. “I mean, I know a little of the bassoon, but it’s nothing like playing the clarinet. I don’t have the embouchure to play bassoon—”

“I don’t know what that means, and I don’t care.” Wirt opened his mouth to protest, but she stole the words from him. “You want to cheer me up? Play the bassoon. That way I can laugh at you when you fail miserably.”

“You’re a real fan of _Schadenfreude,_ aren’t you?”

“Again, another word I don’t understand.”

Wirt picked up what Beatrice assumed to be a bassoon. “It’s German. It means taking pleasure in other people’s misfortune.”

“Maybe only yours,” Beatrice smirked.

Wirt brought the bassoon’s mouthpiece to his lips. “I’m going to regret this.”

Beatrice partly expected Wirt to sound as awful as he claimed to be, maybe even worse. Except she was not surprised to hear him play quite well. He played a mellow, gentle melody, one she guessed to be a tender but melancholy love song. He slipped up on occasion and cringed at his mistakes, but resumed, determined to finish what he started. If she were a human—which she would be, in less than three hours—she would grin ear-to-ear, her heart swollen with delight.  She possibly felt it now, though as a bluebird, it was difficult to pinpoint and describe exactly _how_ it felt.

When Wirt finished, he nervously glanced at Beatrice.

“That was beautiful.”

“You’re just saying that to make _me_ feel better.”

“No, I’m not. Sh—cheese and crackers, can’t you tell when I’m complimenting you?”

Wirt raised an eyebrow at her. “‘Cheese and crackers?’”

“I’m trying not to curse as much,” Beatrice explained, as if it was news she was sharing with herself for the first time, “I don’t think you’re comfortable with it, and it’s probably better Greg doesn’t have a bad influence.”

“Oh.” Wirt paused. “Thanks, I think. I don’t mind it _that_ much.”

“ _Sure_. But enough about that and back to your bassoon-ing. It sounded good.”

Wirt stared at the bassoon in his hands. “It was…fun, I guess. I sound better on a clarinet because that’s my instrument and all.”

“How can you be the judge of that if you don’t let others hear you play?”

“I let you listen to me play.”

“Which I appreciate, I do. I liked what you played a lot. But I’d like to hear you play clarinet.”

“I was going to play the clarinet for you, but Endicott doesn’t have one.”

“Then let’s make that an extra clause to our deal,” Beatrice stated. “When we reach your side of the Garden Wall, you should play the clarinet for me.”

“Okay, fine.” The quiet returned, but only for a handful of seconds. “Hey, um, did it make you feel better about whatever was upsetting you?”

Beatrice nodded. “It did, actually. Thank you.”

\--

In Wirt’s bedroom, Beatrice sat atop of one of the corner posters. “Your room is so…masculine. All imperial and stately.”

“It’s the Georgian style,” Wirt commented from the mattress.

“More nerdy talk I don’t understand.”

Wirt scoffed playfully at this. “Hey, aren’t you a human tonight?”

Beatrice nodded. “Sometime soon, like in the next twenty minutes, or thirty. The time isn’t the exact same every night, but I can more or less guess when it’ll happen.”

“Just warn me so I don’t look over and all of the sudden you’re a human girl. And I’d recommend flying down here _before_ that happens—”

“Well _duh_ ,” Beatrice grumbled. “I’m not stupid. I once turned into a human while I was in a tree. That wasn’t fun.”

She stayed on the post as Wirt talked about how he taught himself to play clarinet and his brief flirtation with other woodwind instruments, which included the bassoon. She could have listened to him ramble on and on about the clarinet, his dorky music theory and terminology; Wirt’s passion showed, and Beatrice admired his ardor. And his words. He crafted them artistically, not even the filler words and nerdy phrases flaccid in his speaking. When the rumblings inside her beckoned, however, she flew to the sheets. “Hang on for a moment,” she said, wrapping her wings around her body.

Wirt did not reply to her, but she felt his gaze upon her as her body morphed from a little bluebird to an average-sized human girl. She released herself from her arms and opened her eyes. Wirt faced the left wall, pretending he had not witnessed her transformation for a third time (technically it was only the second time, but she added the night in the rain for the sake of convention). “Hey, uh, where’s Greg? We haven’t seen him since dinner,” Beatrice observed, bringing the attention off of her, but the considerable lack of Greg honestly surprised her. Greg would want to be hanging out with his older brother, whom he found cool but was not at all, and the human Beatrice, so he could possibly challenge her to another tickle fight.  

“I think he went to bed early.”

“Really? Greg go to bed _early_?”

Wirt shrugged. “Maybe he’s catching a cold. He has been coughing a lot ever since he and I first got here. And I think he’s getting more delusional as the days pass. Today he kept talking about how he met the Queen of the Clouds last night, as if his dream was totally real.”

“Then it’s a good thing we only have two more days until we take the ferry.”

“What?”

Beatrice’s eyes matched with Wirt’s. They still shone carnelian and burnt amber. She disregarded the fluttering and blossoming ripples that originated in her core and intensified in her chest. “We’re supposed to take the ferry in less than three days, and then we’ll be back on your way home.”

“Oh, right,” Wirt mumbled inaudibly, his eyes fallen to the sheets, as if he was unfortunately reminded of this fact. Which…did not add up. Wirt was anxious to go home.  

Beatrice decided to change the subject a second time. “So, why don’t you tell me more about where you’re from?” she requested adroitly, hoping Wirt interpreted her curiosity as authentic and friendly.

Wirt perked his head up. “I feel like I’ve told you everything already.”

“I don’t think so,” Beatrice shot down. “Your side sounds so intricate, I highly doubt you covered everything the last time.”

“Well, I don’t know where to start. I’ve already told you about fast food and cars—”

“What about marriage proposals?”

Wirt leaned backwards; both of his eyebrows lifted. “Where’d that come from?”

“From that fundraiser yesterday,” Beatrice justified. “Please tell me marriage proposals on your side aren’t so garish and public.”

“Well…they can be. It depends on the couple and who is proposing.” Beatrice wrinkled her nose, which Wirt noticed. “I’m taking this as you’re not a fan of public marriage proposals.”

“Ugh,” Beatrice scoffed with a guttural ‘g,’ “ _no_. That’s such a private, intimate moment, and he wanted to enact it in front of complete strangers?”

“I thought it was sweet.”

“Well, naturally _you_ do. You’re the boy who is using a cursed talking bluebird to woo a girl.”

Beatrice smiled satisfyingly at Wirt’s pinkish face. He shifted in the seat he made for himself amongst the sheets, bringing his knees to his chest and embracing his legs with his arms. He spoke movingly, although the timid volume did not match his explanation. “Well if I were to ever propose to someone, I wouldn’t do it publicly. But I don’t think it mattered for them—the couple from yesterday, I mean. They didn’t care if anyone saw them because you could tell they loved each other so much. If she didn’t love him as much as he did but looked forced into saying yes because she had spectators, well, then I wouldn’t have thought it was so sweet. It’s all about preference.”

“Does _Sara_ like public proposals?” Beatrice teased, not anticipating Wirt to take her seriously.

Except he did. “I…I don’t know. She and I don’t talk often.”

Beatrice’s mischievousness drained out of her, sucked away once Wirt finished his sentence. “Okay, you’re joking, right? Isn’t Sara supposed to be the love of your life…or something?”

Wirt gave a gentle laugh at this. “Maybe if you asked me that a week ago, I would’ve said yes. But now…I don’t know. I’ve liked her for two years, but I was too nervous to really hang out with her. I know some stuff about her, practically growing up in the same neighborhood and going to the same schools and all, but she doesn’t know a lot about me.”

“You’re not even friends?”

“We’re friend _ly_ ,” Wirt emphasized on the last syllable, “but no. We’re more like friendly acquaintances.”

Beatrice puckered her brow and lips. “So how do you know you have feelings for her?”

Wirt flattened his legs and glowered at Beatrice. “Haven’t you ever had feelings for someone?”

“No,” Beatrice half-lied.

“Not even a temporary crush?”

“Okay, well, yes I had one of those once, but I was thirteen. I don’t remember much about it.”

Maybe she was supposed to take offense to Wirt’s sigh, but Beatrice only felt blank. Wirt cleared his throat and pressed the tips of his fingers together, resting the steeple his hands formed against his chin. “Well, I think about her a lot.”

“You can think about someone a lot and hate them,” Beatrice countered.

“ _Anyways_ ,” Wirt continued, ignoring her point, “she’s nice—”

“You said that the last time I asked about her.”

“Will you let me finish, please?”

Beatrice put her hands up in surrender. “Thank you,” Wirt recognized, the phrase biting and enunciated sharply. “As I was saying, she’s nice, and she’s pretty, and smart, and considerate, and she’s…”

“Okay, I get it, she’s perfect. Except nobody is perfect. Do you like her despite her flaws?”

“Sara doesn’t have flaws.”

“ _Everyone_ has flaws,” Beatrice remarked, a correction. “Saying she doesn’t have flaws is a lie. That’s what makes us human. But you say you don’t know a lot about her, and she doesn’t know much about you, either. If you really liked her, wouldn’t you make some effort for an excuse to be around her so you can learn more about her and her flaws, instead of avoiding her and writing poetry about her in your room?”

“I never said I wrote poetry about her.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “ _Please._ Sara might not know you, but I do.”

The sentence escaped from her mouth, and for the slowest second in Beatrice’s life, the world stood still. Her face dropped, her lips marginally ajar as her jaw released itself, her eyelids opening wider. Wirt gazed at her. Did he pick up on how her words punched at her insides—a swift, pugnacious, unexpected blow? Even she could not comprehend exactly what her words meant. She met Wirt and Greg just over a week ago, yet her words sounded as if she had known Wirt for years, like childhood friends who understood each other better than they understood themselves.

“Beatrice?”

“Yeah?” she feigned detachment from the swirling and baffling sensations confined within her body.

Wirt stayed quiet for a beat or two before he spoke up again. “Are we…friends?”

His question anchored itself in Beatrice’s torso. Considering Greg her friend was easy—but Wirt? In half the time they had known each other, she chided him, insulted him, teased him, almost despised him. But for the other half, she stomached him. Or, she used to. Now, he amused her. She liked _his_ company, and his stories. She confided in him—briefly—about her curse, and her family. He played the bassoon for her in hopes she would feel better (and she did) without knowing why she faltered.. And he opened up to her, too, sharing not only his life, but his world, with her.

Outside her siblings, Beatrice had few friends growing up, if she ever had any to begin with. The only person she ever trusted and called a friend as not a person at all. It was the family dog, Apollo, because he kept her secrets, and cuddled next to her whenever she needed a moment alone.

Wirt was no dog named Apollo, but that was okay. Wirt offered words and musical notes instead of barks, sniffs, and tilted heads. She could still banter with him. _Right_?

Beatrice smiled and pushed her chin out, confident and buoyant. “Yes, I think so.”

“Okay,” Wirt responded breathily, hesitant but pleased.

* * *

The topic changed again, and again, and again. Beatrice pried for more stories about his side of the wall, and listened to Wirt enlighten her with a winded discussion of music and the immense variety of genres. A part of her wanted to return to the conversation about Sara and Wirt’s feelings for her, but the rest of her preferred not talking about Sara. The other stories spun from Wirt’s words spellbound her enough.

She woke up at one point in the early morning, before the sunrise and thus still a human, unable to recall when she fell asleep. Wirt slept on the other side of the bed, turned away from her with a wide gap of mattress and sheets between them, his breaths deep and dawdling. Beatrice closed her eyes once again and thanked no one in particular for a friend like Wirt.


	13. Unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "jovial, vivacious music" that "remind[s] Beatrice of springtime" is Johann Strauss' "[Voices of Spring, Op.410 (Frühlingstimmen)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2gG9YSaf4Mg)." I recommend listening to it while reading that part.

Greg aside, Wirt never thought he would ever play an instrument in front of anyone.

Never mind he played _bassoon_ instead of his _clarinet_ , or his audience was a talking bluebird who turned out to be a cursed human—temperamental and mean regardless of what species she was at a given time.

Except it felt right to play music for Beatrice, even if it was bassoon, and she expected him to fail. He noticed how she fled away from the carriage once they returned to the Endicott-Grey estate from the fundraiser, and never came in to eat dinner. For nearly all of the next day, she disappeared again, and he only snagged a “hello” from her at breakfast and throughout dinner. Could birds look forlorn and unhappy? Beatrice the Bluebird certainly did when she minimally pecked at her food. No snide remarks at his expense, no bursts of irate profanity—just a bluebird, absently staring at her food if she was not eating it.

The idea sprang into his head as he stood up from the dining room table and exited the room towards the parlor Endicott and Margueritte liked to retire to before they went to bed, but stopped in his tracks. It sat poorly with him to think Beatrice would be left alone for the rest of the evening, especially when she was to be a human. Wirt had been meaning to check out Endicott’s room dedicated to storing music instruments, but only when Endicott had no inkling he would be there. He figured Beatrice would like to hear his pitiful attempts at music. So maybe it was a good circumstance for Endicott not to own a clarinet.

Beatrice the Human was back to her normal self—or, a version of herself, at least. She debated with Wirt, but to him, such arguments with Beatrice stopped feeling like real _arguments_ ever since they talked in the wardrobe. Yes, they were often on opposite sides of a topic, and yes, their words _sounded_ like heated, angry quarrels. But Wirt realized most of it was in jest. Beatrice confessed to him things she had probably never admitted to anyone else, and Wirt expected she became vulnerable once those words were out. Now, with such knowledge at his cusp, how could Wirt argue with her with a malicious intent? The bickering was almost playful now, expected and light.

Their banter was a banter between friends.

Beatrice was not perfect. She swore. She fumed. She spoke before she thought. She lied. She selfishly led them astray. But she also willingly gave up the chance to break her curse, break the agreement they made, and see to it herself that Wirt and Greg would return home safely. And she atoned for her curse in hopes of setting everything right for her family. Behind a tough exterior and sharp beak, Beatrice was just a girl at war with herself.

No, Beatrice was _most definitely not_ perfect.

But she would not be Beatrice if she were.

* * *

“I…don’t think this a good idea.”

“It’s _me_.”

“But I haven’t done this before!”

“Neither have most people, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“What if it hurts?”

“It shouldn’t, but I’ll be gentle for a first-timer.”

Wirt felt Beatrice land in his hair. She leaned over to hang her head so she could look at him when she spoke, but Wirt could only see the tip of her beak. “Oh _come on,_ Wirt. Just hop on his back. Riding a horse really isn’t something to get so worked up about.”

“Have you ridden horses before?” Wirt mumbled.

“Not often, but I have. Side-saddle _and_ the way men do. Seriously—it’s not awful. So your legs will be a little sore because it wasn’t used to straddling—”

“You’re intentionally making this uncomfortable, aren’t you?”

“I’m offended,” Beatrice scoffed as she flew over to the space between Fred’s ears. “Not everything I say is meant to get you in a tizzy. And it’s true. The first time, you’ll feel really bow-legged and weird, but after a while, it’s totally normal. Besides, aren’t most women attracted to men on horses?”

Wirt narrowed his eyes. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with learning how to ride a horse,” he responded flatly.

“Learn to ride a horse, ride a horse in front of Sara, _presto_! She’s all yours.”

Wirt sighed. “Your plan is faulty for many reasons, but I’ll only list one. There aren’t many horses where I live. In other parts, sure. But not in the suburbs.”

“Well, you should learn how to ride a horse anyways. It’s a valuable skill.”

“Yeah!” Greg agreed ecstatically. “C’mon, Wirt, let’s pretend to be cowboys!”

“Cowboys?” Beatrice remarked. Wirt imagined the human Beatrice raising her eyebrow at him and a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, in search of an explanation.

“I’ll explain later,” Wirt answered offhandedly. “But back to this. What if I fall off?”

“I’ll make sure you won’t,” Fred chipped in. “We’ll stay on the grounds of the estate, and nothing here can spook me. You’ll be okay.”

“Yeah, _Wart_. Stop being such a killjoy,” Beatrice chipped in.

He stifled the urge to smile at Beatrice’s old nickname for him; he was not about to give her the satisfaction of knowing he kind of enjoyed it. Instead, Wirt weighed the option presented in front of him, and reluctantly caved in. He hoisted himself onto the stepping stool before swinging his leg over Fred’s back. Beatrice was right about the bow-legged thing. Greg climbed in front of him, and Wirt instinctively reached over his brother and grasped handfuls of Fred’s mane—a gesture he saw Native Americans do in the old westerns John watched almost religiously. “Am I doing this right?” he asked.

“Yes,” Fred called. “If we had a bridle and saddle, it’d be a little different. But that’s fine.”

A warming surge flourished in Wirt’s chest. A moment of self-pride, perhaps?

“Now kick my sides.”

“What?”

“You won’t hurt me.”

Wirt followed Fred’s directions; he brought his feet up and dropped his heels against Fred’s flanks. “You can go harder than _that_ ,” Fred urged. Wirt hesitantly repeated the motion, this time with more vigor. The horse stepped forwards, plodding along in one direction. “See? If you were to ride a horse who can’t talk, you have to be more forceful so it _knows_ you want it to move forwards. Just imagine kicking your little brother.”

“Wirt would _never_ kick me!” Greg chimed.

“Don’t be too sure about that,” Wirt muttered, deadpan. Beatrice, still propped between Fred’s ears, swiftly turned to stare Wirt down, but no words came out of her beak.

Wirt’s heart pumped at a speed he never thought humanly possible, but as the lesson went on, the uneasy rapidness gave way to an electrified thrill, rousing and desirable. Fred directed Wirt so he knew how to indicate he wished to turn, and if he wished to go faster. At first, Wirt feared the trot and canter would be too much for him to handle, but in anticipation of Greg’s persistence and Beatrice’s teasing, Wirt discarded his inhibitions and gave Fred a swift, vigorous kick. He leaned forwards as Fred flashed through the breeze, with Greg protected underneath Wirt’s shell as he hooted from the rush. His worries escaped him, a dead weight freed from his shoulders. It was the second or third time in recent memory he experienced the weightlessness ( _For so/many years I hardly/had time to know such moments. They struck me/with such intensity/I would have said/battered me open_ ).

“Cheese and crackers, slow down!” Beatrice hollered as she flew next to Fred, struggling to keep up with his pace.

Wirt pulled on Fred’s mane. “Are you sure you’ve never ridden a horse before?” Fred asked as he slowed into walk.

Wirt nodded despite Fred’s inability to see the gesture. “I mean, I’ve ridden a carousel horse when I was younger.”

“Well, you’re doing quite well for someone on his first try,” Fred complimented. “But I’m going to take over now.”

Wirt let go of Fred’s mane and sat back, as did Greg; Beatrice landed on his head, the fluff of his hair padding down. “You _were_ pretty great,” she whispered, not an inkling of hesitant defeat in her voice.

Fred walked further away from the gardens until he reached a corner of the gates hidden by trees and brush. “I told you I would show you my secret hiding spots,” he said as Wirt and Greg mounted off of him. Wirt inventoried the various items that littered the corner’s surrounding ground: several unfinished or used-up tubes of lipstick, a broken bridle, a pair of tattered shoes with holes on the sides, a scattering of gold coins. Greg, with his frog in hand, picked up a torn jester’s hat and propped it on his head.

“Look at me! I’m a flower! Wait until the people of Cloud City see me tonight!”

Wirt rolled his eyes at Greg’s silliness. “Did you bring all this stuff here?” he directed towards Fred.

The horse nodded. “Remember, I was a highwayman’s horse. When I first came to work for Endicott and the Mistress, I had difficulty breaking my habits, so I brought the things I stole here. Over time I’ve returned most of them, but what’s left here are objects too inconsequential and small to return. I come here if I want to be alone with my thoughts.”

“What profound thoughts can a horse have?” Beatrice’s sardonic voice filtered from above Wirt’s head.

Fred only laughed. “You’d be surprised. We talking horses have more capacity for deep thought. Not to speak poorly of our non-speaking brethren, but we can be quite the philosophers.”

“Maybe you and Wirt should talk about nerdy stuff together.”

“You say that like an insult,” Wirt called up to her.

“What if it is?”

Beatrice dug her talons into his scalp just enough for Wirt to screech in pain and swat her off of his head. She settled back into his hair a few seconds later, but Wirt’s attempts to shake her off proved futile.

They sat with Fred in his special corner, with Wirt sharing more stories about his side of the Garden Wall; Greg insisted on offering his own tales ( _embellishments_ ), to which Wirt occasionally had to hush him on. He was trying to offer _authenticity_ , and Greg just _had_ to throw in his fantasy and overactive imagination for the sake of (superfluous) color.

“Shush.”

“You shush!”

“Shh!”

“ _You shh!_ ”

“Cheese and crackers, both of you shut up and get on with it!” Beatrice commanded bitterly at the top of her bird lungs.

They continued on until sunset, when Fred led them to the front entrance before disappearing to his stables in the back.

Beatrice spent the night with him in his room again, a bluebird perched atop one of the four posters, another night of talking about their lives on their respective sides of the Garden Wall. Wirt spent a good fifteen minutes complaining about Jason Funderberker, which Beatrice took pleasure in witnessing Wirt vent angrily over his sworn enemy (Wirt’s words, not Jason Funderberker’s).

“He sounds like a drip.”

“He’s more than a drip. He’s a tool.”

“A tool? Like a hammer?”

“More a like a faulty screwdriver.”

“Is that innuendo?”

Wirt shrugged. “It could be.”

When Wirt woke up in the morning, five minutes before Greg pushed the door open and sprang onto a corner of the bed, Beatrice had gravitated to the mattress, her blue body tucked into the crevice made between the bedsheets and the side of his body.

* * *

“Can you believe tomorrow the three of you will be on your way to the Garden Wall once more?” Endicott proclaimed at breakfast. “Today is your last day, my boys! And Beatrice.”

“It is?” Wirt inquired, proceeding to count the days since the three of them arrived at the Endicott-Grey estate. Tonight would be his and Greg’s tenth night on this side of the wall, but roughly a week with their eccentric hosts. It felt longer, like two or three weeks. Maybe even a month, or just over one. He was certain he had not seen every inch of the interior, but he at least knew the path to his room and a few other rooms, like the three dining rooms used for each meal of the day, and the parlor the older couple rested in before they went to sleep, and the musical instrument room.

Greg’s coughs snapped Wirt’s attention back to the three other people and the bluebird sitting at the table.

“And perhaps that is a good thing,” Margueritte added. “ _Pauvre_ Greg must be coming down with an illness. How do you feel, Greg?”

“Ay-okay!” Greg beamed when his coughs halted, flashing a thumbs up and a wide smile at Margueritte. “This is nothing. Once I had strep throat and I was out for _days_.”

“And then you gave it to me,” Wirt remarked bitterly, and shuddered at the memory of a dry, red, sore throat and a sweltering forehead. He spent the next week scrambling to finish the stack of homework he needed to make up, and sifting through his biology notes for a quiz and test he had to complete before the grading quarter finished. He cursed Greg’s low immune system then, and he cursed it now.

A pointed edge poked at his outer thigh, puncturing the fabric of the britches he wore. Beatrice flew back to the table’s surface as if nothing transpired in the last five or six seconds.

“Yes, well, since it is your last full day with us, Margueritte and I were wondering if we could hold a special party for the three of you tonight.”

“A party? Hooray!” Greg applauded. “Will there be cake?”

“It’s less of a party and more of a special evening, just an _adieu_ in your honor,” Margueritte clarified, her index finger held up. “That is, only if you want. I can have a special dinner prepared, and some music and dancing.”

Either the temperature in the room raised several notches, or the word _dancing_ caused Wirt to sweat nervously. For no reason. Except his lack of self-coordination and awkward gawkiness prevented him from looking like a normal person. _Dancing_? No. _No no nononono._ But if he rejected their idea, he would appear to be ungrateful and apathetic to all they had provided for him, Greg, and Beatrice in the past few days. Wirt realized this was a skewed kind of logic, as he did not want Endicott and Margueritte to go even more out of their way than they already had. _Also no dancing._ And if he did say no, Greg would be disappointed, and Beatrice…well, Wirt was unsure how Beatrice would react, but it was bound to end with her insulting him in some capacity. She was to be a human tonight. And maybe she liked dancing. So maybe he owed it to Beatrice—and Greg. He could sacrifice his own comfort zone and sanity to let her— _them_ —have their fun.

“Yeah, that sounds f-fun,” Wirt conceded.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Beatrice turn her head to look at him. “Sounds lovely,” she chirped.

“Marvelous!” Endicott shot up from his seat and sashayed towards one of the entryways. “What a grand time it will be.”

“ _Mon Dieu_ , I best go make sure he does nothing too rash,” Margueritte sighed, and she followed after him.

Greg stood up from his own chair to twirl around and flail his arms. “Whoo hoo! Party tonight! Do you think I can get a frog-sized tuxedo for Lewis Clark?” A croak escaped from Greg’s pants pocket. “I’ll see what I can do, Lewis Clark,” Greg patted the amphibian’s head before he continued with his own form of dancing.

“I thought you’d say no,” Beatrice reprimanded, an airiness to her manner. “I could see your hands twitching underneath the table.”

Wirt rubbed his hands together as he scrounged up a plausible excuse. “I’d feel bad if I said no. They obviously wanted to do whatever they’re going to do, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. They’ve been very hospitable to us for the past week.” _Not a lie, and a piece of the truth._

“If you say so,” Beatrice replied with a sing-song tone. “If I didn’t know any better, I think you have two left feet, and don’t want to make a fool of yourself.”

“That’s ridiculous!” his voice cracked _. Definitely a lie._

“Yeah, _okay_. Word to the wise, Wirt, there’s no one here worth impressing, so you shouldn’t have to worry about looking like a dork. You do that already.” A self-satisfied cackle escaped Beatrice’s beak.

“Hey!” Wirt grumbled, ready to snatch Beatrice into his hands, but she dodged him and flew away.

* * *

The rest of the day passed anxiously in anticipation for the nighttime activities. A smaller evening meal replaced what would have been the usual dinner, but Endicott and Margueritte insisted on serving the full course later in the night when Beatrice was a human. When the evening meal finished and they played a few rounds of an intricate card game in the post-dinner parlor, Margueritte picked Beatrice up and whisked her towards her room, which Beatrice had not stepped foot in since the day before.

“I thought I would help you get dressed once you are a human,” Margueritte announced as she fled up the staircase and hurried down the corridor. Beatrice knew the path to Wirt and Greg’s rooms better than her own— _has that portrait always been there?_

“That’s not necessary—”

“ _Pas de problème,”_ Margueritte interrupted. “Now, how long until your transformation?”

“Umm…maybe another thirty minutes?”

“ _D’accord_.” Margueritte opened the door leading into Beatrice’s room and set the bird onto the bed. “I had your dress from the first night washed and dried, if you’d like to wear it.” She pointed to Beatrice’s blue day gown draped over the back of the armchair. “But I do have a few of my own gowns you might fit into, if you’d wish.”

Beatrice shook her head. “No, my dress is fine, really. No need to dress me up like a doll—”

Margueritte frowned. Beatrice refused to allow guilt to take over, but she recognized how her words came across, and sought to fix them. “I mean, you’ve been so kind, but sometimes I feel like it’s too much kindness—” _Aw shit, Beatrice, you’re just making things worse._

“ _Je suis desolée._ ” _I’m sorry_. Margueritte sat on the edge of the bed next to Beatrice, her hands on both sides of her wide, floral-embroidered skirt. “I tend to think I am not like my husband, but I, too, get carried away with things. I’ve just enjoyed having the three of you in this house. I love Quincy, but we’ve always wanted children.”

Beatrice’s mind revisited all the moments Margueritte extended a kind hand to her. It was more than the duty of a good hostess. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“ _Non, ça va, ça va._ I didn’t mean to damper your evening. You and the boys have been such a delight. Even after Quincy and I found each other, this big place still had an edge of loneliness to it. We never liked having too many servants. Fred is a wonderful addition, but that lonesomeness never went away. I think the three of you brought some color back these hallways. Quincy, Fred, and I are sad to see you leave so soon.”

Beatrice flew into Margueritte’s lap. “I’ve enjoyed my time here,” she said honestly. “You and Endicott are wonderful hosts, and Fred’s pretty fun, too.” She would even call them her friends. If only she were a human, then Beatrice would smile and embrace Margueritte.

“ _Merci_ , _Béatrice_.”

An idea flashed into Beatrice’s mind when Margueritte rubbed the pad of her index finger against the top of Beatrice’s head. “Hey, um…how about after I drop Wirt and Greg off at the wall and I fix this curse, I come visit you once in a while?”

The older woman’s eyes brightened. “I have a better idea. Perhaps you can work for us?”

“Wh—pardon?”

“You could help Quincy and I sell our tea at the markets. We would pay you, so it would be some extra income for you and your family, and we can still keep in touch.”

If she were human at this moment, Beatrice would smile from ear-to-ear. “Okay. I like that idea.”

“ _Fantastique_! Quincy will love to hear the good news.”

They chatted for several minutes longer until Beatrice’s body indicated it was time for her to change into her human self. For the first several seconds of the metamorphosis, Beatrice worried over exposing this transformation once more to someone outside her family, or Greg and Wirt. Those insecurities wiped away when she remembered who was watching her: Margueritte, who witnessed such conversions before, and picked out worms especially for her to eat. It was only fitting for Beatrice to share this moment with her hostess and friend on the last night she would see Margueritte, Endicott, and Fred for a while.

If everything went accordingly.

“You’re quite beautiful, _Béatrice_ ,” Margueritte complimented as she helped Beatrice into her own undergarments and dress. Beatrice could not remember the last time the fabric was this fresh and clean, as though the articles of clothing were newly made. Vanished were the various dirt stains her dress accumulated over the months since her curse was first instituted. Beatrice just felt better wearing the garment, the various cloths soft against her human skin.

“Um, thank you,” she accepted.

“I’m sure Wirt finds you beautiful, too.”

Beatrice grimaced. Greg said a similar statement the first night they spent in the manor, but back then, Beatrice abhorred Wirt and his stubbornness. Now, approximately a week later— _that short? It feels longer_ —Margueritte drawing attention to the same idea sent a jolt up Beatrice’s spine, and warmth in her cheeks. “Um…okay,” she responded, falsely apathetic.

“You don’t think so?”

Beatrice kept the charade up. “I don’t really care.”

“Oh. Do you not have feelings for him?”

“What?!” Alarmed, Beatrice rapidly turned to face Margueritte. “ _No_. No I don’t. Wirt is a friend. That’s it. Wirt has feelings for Sara.”

“Who?”

“Sara. She’s this girl on his side of the wall, and he likes her. A lot.”

Margueritte’s eyes drifted off to the side. “Oh, I see. I’ve just noticed how the two of you have been nearly inseparable the last few days, and I supposed...but I guess I can read into things at times. But I was so certain! And, well, oh, _ce n’est pas grave_. Why don’t I fix your hair, and we can head down to the festivities?”

Beatrice allowed for the misunderstanding to be forgiven, and she pretended to forget it.

* * *

Out of politesse, Beatrice tried to maintain her poise as she ate the dinner in front of her, but her hunger often poked through the façade. Her first human meal in months—a _full_ meal, not a few stolen slices of cheese and bread rolls here and there, but a meal of juicy filet mignon, crisp vegetables, cheesy potatoes, freshly baked bread rolls, and lemon lavender pudding for dessert! She envied how Wirt and Greg had eaten such flavorfully prepared dishes for the past few days while she sufficed on maggots, worms, and seeds. Beatrice contemplated over whether or not she could sneak few of the bread rolls back to her room, but plump rolls of dough were significantly more difficult to hide within her clothes than the coins she used to tuck into the hem of her dress. Instead, when she completed her dessert, she snagged another roll and hastily chomped at it. “That was delicious,” she thanked after swallowing the last chewed bite of bread.

“I didn’t know you could make pudding out of flowers,” Greg commented. “Mom should make rose cakes and daisy bread, don’t you think, Wirt?”

“Rose cakes are a thing,” Beatrice jumped in. “My mother made them once in a while. You need rose water for the rose flavor.”

“Whoa! When we get back we should _totally_ tell Mom to bake a rose cake!”

Wirt nodded and mumbled incoherently, his eyes focused on his empty plate. Beatrice nearly extended a hand over to rest against his upper arm or shoulder, but the boisterous clap of Endicott’s hands halted any chance of her doing so. “Well now that our dinner is over, why don’t we move this _soirée—_ ” he glanced over to Margueritte, as if asking if he pronounced the word correctly, to which she nodded in approval—“into the ballroom? I’ve been meaning to try out that new contraption ever since I purchased it at the last market we attended, but now that we have guests, I suppose it’s as good of a time as any to see just what it is capable of!” Endicott dashed out of the dining room before anyone could stand up from their chairs.

“He’s wanted to show off that thing for weeks now,” Margueritte giggled. “He’s been toying with it almost every night, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he only wanted to have a special night for the sake of getting to play his new-fangled… _engin._ ”

She led the three to a room Beatrice could only assume was what Endicott referred to as the ballroom. Its size, however, was more akin to one of the many day or night parlors available in the palace. This ballroom, with its minimal furniture, high ceiling, and picturesque windows, only gave the semblance of a massive space. Dozens of candelabras and lanterns lit the room, creating a placating glow in the area. At the far end, near the windows, Endicott fiddled with a tabletop machine. The most prominent feature was the brass horn-like tube, reminiscent of a musical instrument itself. Wirt brushed past her so he could marvel at the object. “A phonograph? How’d you get a _phonograph_?”

“Ah, so you’ve heard of it, my good boy! Yes, a phonograph. It’s supposed to play recorded music so an orchestra is not necessary—”

“And you got this at a market? Here? But that doesn’t make any sense. There’s no electricity here, although the earliest phonographs didn’t require electricity, but—”

“Ease up on the nerd talk,” Beatrice teased when she approached the scene. Wirt quickly turned to stare at her before huffing and crossing his arms over his chest. She nudged his side with her elbow, and Wirt winced at the motion.

“Ah-ha!” Endicott announced. He stepped away from his intricate toy and took Margueritte by the hand. “Gather round, my friends. I thought we could start off tonight’s engagements with a toast of sorts. Margueritte, _cherie_ , do we have any champagne or sparkling cider readily available?” Before Margueritte could respond, Endicott waved his hand in a downward motion. “Oh, let’s not bother with those formalities now. I might as well jump into it; I don’t need the effects of alcohol to say what I am thinking.”

With a tight smile on her lips, Margueritte muttered a French phrase under her breath which Beatrice did not understand, but could only assume was jokingly caustic.

Endicott continued. “Yes, well, I must say—it’s been wonderful having the three of you as our guests for the past few days. You bring a particular charm to the Endicott-Grey estate, and it brings a tear to my eye to know that you will be departing tomorrow. Greg, if it was not for you flagging down Fred and I that one fateful, stormy night, then these days would’ve been quite uneventful. You remind me of, well, me, when I was your age. Keep up with that jolly spirit of yours, it’s always good to have it.”

Greg saluted the older man. “Aye aye, sir!”

“Wirt, you’re a fine young man on the cusp of adulthood, and I think you’ll go far in life. There’s a pensiveness in you, something tacit and solitary. It’s the quietest ones are those who accomplish great things.”

Wirt held a hand to his face. “Umm, thank you.” In the corner of her eye, Beatrice spotted crimson on his cheeks.

Endicott finally brought his attention to her. “And Beatrice, such a firecracker! Even as a bird, you can be quite the spitfire, which some would think as a vice. I think it’s an advantage. It shows your tenacity and confidence, and you won’t let anyone step over you.”

“Thank you,” she responded coolly, but Endicott’s compliments flush Beatrice enough, she had to lower her head so no one could pick up on her own blush. No one ever said that her sharp-tongue and pugnacity were beneficial. Her parents constantly scolded her for talking back or arguing with her siblings—and it was her own brashness that led to the curse.

“Do you have anything to say, _ma cherie_?” Endicott asked Margueritte.

“ _Oui_ ,” she replied, then looked upon her guests. “I hope your journey home is safe, and it was such a pleasure getting to know you. Perhaps this won’t be a final farewell, not for everyone.” She winked at Beatrice. Beatrice smiled back.

Greg raised his arm, waving the hand back and forth. “Can _I_ say something?”

“By all means!” Endicott outstretched his hand, his palm facing upwards.

Greg hopped up and down before clasping his hands together and imitating a controlled, confident pose. “I think it is time to dance.”

“ _Bien sûr!_ ” Margueritte affirmed. Endicott returned to the phonograph behind him, and after a few seconds, music emanated from the brass foxglove.    

With Wirt in between them, Greg reached his hand over to Beatrice. “Beatrice, may I have this dance?”

“Why, certainly. Such a gentleman,” Beatrice played along, setting her hand into Greg’s smaller, pudgier one. He pulled at her arm as she followed him to the open floor, where Margueritte and Endicott were already waltzing to the music. They chatted to each other as they maneuvered through the floor, lovesick grins and eyes. Beatrice’s dancing with Greg was more like playing “Ring Around the Rosy,” with their arms stretched into a circle and moving in one direction. She liked it; it brought back (bittersweet) memories of dancing with her younger siblings in the tall summer grass, or tumbling into the winter snow. Greg occasionally broke the circle by one hand so he could line himself next to Beatrice and hold the free arm parallel to the floor, then reconstructed the circle. Unfamiliar with this style, Beatrice tried to mimic Greg’s motions.

“You’re an excellent dancer,” Beatrice praised her dancing partner.

“And you’re pretty in that dress,” Greg returned.

“This old thing?” Beatrice continued her (not entirely a) charade.  “Thanks. I like it, too.” Or, she did, once; it was the dress she wore every night she was a human for the past several months. The light blue color ridiculed her, a reminder she was cursed to be a bluebird. However, Beatrice was thankful Margueritte did not push her into wearing one of Margueritte’s elaborate and needlessly _big_ gowns. They were beautiful on Margueritte. Beatrice could only imagine herself looking like a fragile porcelain doll meant only for display and light play if she wore one.

When they held both of their hands to form the circle again, Greg looked up at her. “Would you do a favor for me, Beatrice?”

_Damn this kid will be a good diplomat._

“Sure.”

“Will you dance with Wirt? Look at him—” as they turned in the circle, Beatrice briefly stuck her head up to catch sight of Wirt awkwardly leaning against the wall. He stared off into space, blithely swaying side-to-side from the waist-up—“he looks so sad and all alone.”

“Hate to break it to you, Greg, but your brother is kind of pathetically sad no matter what,” she joked.

Instead of an understanding smile, Greg furrowed his brow at her. “ _Pleeease_?” he begged through gritted teeth. “We’re supposed to be having fun tonight, and Wirt doesn’t look like he’s having fun.”

Beatrice scrunched her nose and pulled her mouth to one side. “Okay, fine. But only because you’re a caring little boy and say such nice things about me. Your flattery works.”

When the music finished and Endicott parted with his wife so he could fidget the phonograph around again, Greg let go of Beatrice’s hand and bowed to her. She curtsied to him before sauntering over to where Wirt planted himself. She ignored his upturned eyebrow. “Care to dance?” she offered, the aura of sprightliness still ingrained in her vocal chords.

“Greg put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“Yes he did,” Beatrice disclosed without even attempting to feign denial.

“I can’t dance,” Wirt shot back. He threw his hands up in the air. “Oh well, too bad, can’t dance!”

The mischievousness rose within Beatrice, but the smirk quickly erupted into a wide, open-mouthed grin. “That’s okay. I’ll teach you.”

“Wait, I—”

Too late. Beatrice snatched his hand and jerked him along to the near-center of the floor. “It’s not that bad, really. Loosen up, you nerd.” She stopped and spun around. Wirt’s proximity was unusually close, and she jumped back from the suddenness of his face near hers. Before she could let Wirt have the satisfaction of knowing he startled her, she decided to use one specific line meant for a special moment. “Hey there, short stack.”

Wirt rolled his eyes. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to start making fun of my height.”

She chuckled. “I’ve always made fun of it, but this is the first time I’m saying it to your face.” Wirt stuck his tongue out at her, to which her laugh loudened. “That’s the best comeback you’ve got? You’re even more hopeless than I thought.”

“Just...teach me how to dance, okay?”

“Fine, fine,” Beatrice laid down her (verbal, and thus, metaphorical) arms. “I’m not exactly _good_ at this, but I can direct a simple waltz. Here—” she situated her and Wirt’s arms into the standard waltz positions, with one of his hands pushed against the small of her back and the other outstretched, holding her hand. Beatrice’s other arm wrapped around his neck. “Hey now, we can get closer than this.” She pulled Wirt towards her—not exactly pressed together, but close enough for Beatrice to notice Wirt had freckles on his face as well. Unlike hers, which dotted almost every square inch of her flesh, Wirt’s clustered unevenly on his cheeks—his left cheek had significantly more than his right—and nowhere else. They were more like sunspots, light brown and small, insignificant and unnoticeable from certain distances or in different lights. Except she saw them now. If she wanted to, she could count them. _Left cheek: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven_ —

“Beatrice?”

She jerked at the sound of his voice. “Right, so the waltz is a four-step; you follow the beat of the music. And you have to lead _me_ —” the snort left her nose before she even had the chance to stop herself— “okay, sorry, that was uncalled for, but the idea of you leading _anything_ is pretty hilarious.”

Wirt visibly seethed at this. “Is it possible for you to teach without offering your witty commentary?”

“I guess we’ll have to find out,” she smirked, and proceeded with her lesson.

Leading Wirt on how to lead proved difficult. Often he would narrowly miss stepping on her feet, if not hit them spot on, or he drifted away from her, forcing Beatrice to yank him back to her. It eventually came to the point where Beatrice ceased teaching him so she could lead. It was easier this way; less confusion of where to go, less stepping on feet, less bumping into Margueritte and Endicott or Greg and his frog, whose name of the day remained elusive. The jovial, vivacious music Endicott’s phonograph played reminded Beatrice of springtime, now that she could hold eye contact with him, the dancing was more of a delightful activity than a maddening lesson. With their nearness, Beatrice studied Wirt’s face for a second time that night—crooked nose, high cheekbones and willowy jaw hidden in still-present baby fat, pointed chin.

_Okay, Wirt has the_ potential _to be attractive…_

“See? It’s not that awful,” Beatrice said after several minutes, the music still echoing throughout the ballroom.

“Heh, yeah, it’s…okay,” Wirt confessed. “When you’re leading, that is. Let’s just add waltzing to the ever-growing lists of things I can’t do.”

If this were like any other time, Beatrice would have teased Wirt endlessly about this list of his and make her own additions. Except at this moment, that was not her first instinct. Instead, Beatrice responded with a simple “Everyone starts somewhere.” She herself was taken aback by her own words, but Beatrice consciously made an effort to not show her own confusion. “Greg, on the other hand, he might have some natural talent.” She peered over Wirt’s head to see Greg, who held his frog’s two front legs in attempt to recreate the same motions he and Beatrice went through earlier. She laughed and swayed over so Wirt could witness the scene without straining his neck. He laughed, too.

* * *

“Wirt?”

The clock read twelve-forty-three in the morning, but Wirt was not in the least bit sleepy. Neither was Beatrice, who stretched herself on the left side of his bed, arms splayed above her head. He had just entered his room after tucking Greg to sleep; his younger brother had fallen asleep in the ballroom as the four others danced well past midnight.

“Yes?” He plopped onto the right side of his bed, his back reclining against the wooden poster at the foot of the bed. He kicked off his shoes and swung his legs onto the surface, where his feet reached to Beatrice’s hips.

“Would you share some poetry with me?”

Beatrice propped herself up onto her forearms so she could look at him. Wirt tilted his head to the side and furled his brow. “Why? Don’t you find my poetry _nerdy_ and _boring_?”

“No,” she blurted. “I mean, yes, it’s extremely nerdy, but also no, and—oh, will you do it or not?” Beatrice pushed herself up so she was now sitting up.

Wirt smirked at his friend, but it was more for appearances. Truth be told, her request kept him on his toes, uncertain if she was sincerely interested, or if she would mock him endlessly if he recited any poem to her. He treaded cautiously into this foray, mentally filing through the various poems he memorized over the years. He opted with one poem he frequently came across in his poetry books, both recreational and school-issued. “I can recite one. It’s not mine, but it’s easy to remember.”

Beatrice nodded her head. “Okay. Go for it.”

Clearing his throat, Wirt closed his eyes and inhaled sharply before beginning his recitation.

“ _This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless_  
_Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson_  
_done._  
_Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the_  
_themes thou lovest best,_  
_Night, sleep, death and the stars_.”

With the close of the last line, Wirt opened his eyes, in search of Beatrice’s visible response. Suspense held their eyes together, and Wirt grew increasingly aware of the thudding against his chest and in his forehead, heat escalating into his neck and cheeks. He hoped Beatrice liked it.

“That’s depressing.”

Wirt’s jaw dropped, a scoff exiting his throat. “What? No it’s not! Walt Whitman isn’t depressing! It’s about being caught up in thoughts at night, wondering about life and other meaningful things.”

“Yup. Depressing.”

Wirt pulled his legs up to his chest. “I thought you’d relate to it.”

“What led you to that conclusion?”

“Well, you can only be a human at night, and Whitman talks about being alone during the night, and—”

Why did he care for Beatrice’s approval?

“Save the analysis, Wirt,” she continued callously, “but, thanks, I guess. It was…sweet of you.” Beatrice diverted her eyes to one of the side walls. “Nerdy, because you memorized such a dismal poem, but sweet.” She collapsed into the pillows resting against the headboard. “Do you have anything original to share? If you want, that is. You…you don’t have to.”

Wirt flattened his legs, a hand running itself through his hair. “You really want to hear some of my own stuff?”

“Yeah,” Beatrice replied softly.

Wirt exhaled deeply as he thought of one original poem he knew rather well, but scrapped the thought entirely; he feared Beatrice would think it “depressing,” and the more he thought of it, the more he realized how despondent his own poetry could be. Once again, he closed his eyes and cleared his mind of other thoughts so he could focus on a line Beatrice would not find melancholic. “‘Without you, today’s emotions would be the scurf of yesterday’s,’” he finally said, cringing at the unintended forlornness.

“Is that a line from a poem you’ve been working on?” Beatrice asked when he finished.

Wirt shrugged. “It could be. I just came up with it.”

“Now?” her eyes widened to saucers.

“Yes,” Wirt replied. “I do that—I’ve _done_ that—in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Shit—I mean, cheese and crackers—no need to get snippy,” Beatrice snapped back; she retreated back into the pillows. “It was a nice line; I’m surprised you came up with it so effortlessly.” A pause. “It’s admirable, really.” No traces of bitterness in her voice, but rather a tenderness.

“Oh.” Guilt flooded over him. “Thank you. And, sorry, I wasn’t trying to be snippy.”

Beatrice flicked her gaze up to him. “Thanks, and I’m sorry, too.”

“For what?”

“For calling you snippy. And maybe pushing you out of your comfort zone?”

Wirt, too lazy to move extensively, placed a hand against her ankle. “No…it was…fine. Reciting poetry to you instead of you overhearing it. Even though you didn’t like the first one—”

“Because it was depressing. And I know the world is a miserable place, I fully accept that. But isn’t poetry about finding happiness in the world?”

“Not at all,” Wirt informed. “Poetry is…well, poetry is all about expression, regardless of the emotion being conveyed.”

Beatrice grunted. “That is the lamest explanation ever. Not even nerdy. Just lame.” Before Wirt could respond, she added, “Umm, Wirt, you can let go of my ankle now.”

“Oh, right,” Wirt removed his hand and held it in his other, as if it were injured and in need of medical attention. “So, uh…is there anything about my world you want to know about tonight?”

Beatrice shook her head. “Not tonight, but maybe we can talk about it tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“On the ferry. We’re leaving tomorrow, _remember_?”

“Right,” Wirt conceded. He was unsure why he kept forgetting this fact. For days, the ferry seemed so far out. Now, with it only a few hours away, Wirt still had a hard time realizing he was about to depart to return to his side of the Garden Wall. And he _knew_ he had to. He and Greg had been gone for over a week now.

So why did it feel like he was not ready to leave?

_There is only the forest_ , the familiar but unidentifiable voice whispered in his mind. Wirt shivered.

Beatrice sat up once more. “Is everything okay, Wirt?”

He crawled over to the space next to Beatrice. “Yeah. I think.”

* * *

“There’s something there.”

“What is where?”

“The boy and the girl. The oldest boy—Wirt, I mean. There’s something there.”

Margueritte climbed into the sheets next to her husband. “She says that she does not have feelings for him.”

“Hogwash. They might not see it now, but they obviously have some kind of romantic inclination towards each other. Did you see them dancing tonight? They were practically magnetic forces. Maybe I should say something.”

Margueritte blew out the candle and settled into the bed. “Let them reach that conclusion on their own.”

“But, what if—”

_“Bonne nuit_ , Quincy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry credit: "Happiness" by Susan Griffin, "A Clear Midnight" by Walt Whitman, and "Without you, today's emotions would be the scurf of yesterday's," which is the English translation of a line from the 2001 French film _Amélie_ ( _Sans toi, les émotions d'aujourd'hui ne seraient que la peau morte des émotions d'autrefois_ ). I thought it sounded like a line Wirt would utter in his poetry.


	14. Uncontrollable

Beatrice woke with a twitch. Her eyelids burst open, and for a handful of seconds, she forgot where she was. The darkness of the room—Wirt’s room, she recognized—cast shadows and an indigo filter over the furniture. Various kinds of fabric pressed against her human skin; the dawn had yet to come, so she could enjoy the last moments of her human form. She smiled to herself and attempted to reposition herself, but a weight resting on her waist prevented her from turning on her back. Beatrice wriggled a little until she felt a warm puff of air blow onto the back of her neck. She gulped. Wirt. It was Wirt’s exhales and Wirt’s arm and Wirt close to her backside.

Instinctively, Beatrice reached one of her hands to the arm on her waist, preparing to lift it off of her and prop it next to him. Wirt fidgeted when her fingers wrapped around his arm; she waited for him to still before continuing her mission with trepidation. Beatrice managed to raise his arm about a centimeter above her, but quickly changed her mind. She set the arm back onto her waist and exhaled. Wirt holding her in this manner reminded her of how he held her bluebird self in his hands—ease, tranquility.

Later, when the sun filtered through the windowpane and she was once again a bluebird, Beatrice would wonder what caused her to change her mind and let Wirt hold her as they slept. Margueritte’s words from the night before would ring in her memory, and Beatrice would chuck those thoughts aside faster than they had arrived.

But now, she closed her eyes, the noise of Wirt’s breaths slowly turned into tiny snores, allowing her to drift back to sleep.

* * *

That morning, Greg did not jump up and down on Wirt’s bed to wake him or Beatrice up. When he did wake up, he was alone in his room. No bluebird on the mattress beside him, or sitting on one of the corner posters or on an armchair. Because the door had been closed last night, he wondered how Beatrice could have left his room. His eyes fell onto a pile of fabric on the desk, like every other morning. Along with these articles of clothing, however, were two distinct differences: a thick, woolen, navy-blue cloak draped over the chair, and a red cone hat adjacent to the folded attire. Beatrice must have left with whomever brought his clothing back.

As he dressed himself in his own clean clothes, Wirt expected Greg to burst open with a frog in his hands and a tune in his heart, ready to sing about the day ahead or what a great breakfast Endicott and Margueritte had waiting for them in the breakfast dining room. Greg never showed up. After tying his shoes, Wirt scanned the room to see if there was anything of his left behind. Not that he entered this…place with anything except a half-brother and the clothes on his back. No watch, no wallet, no flashlight—nothing.

He did, however, acquire a pair of stork scissors in the first few days. Wirt grabbed the metal trinket set atop the end table and shoved it into one of his pockets. His fingers brushed against a stringy material crumpled at the bottom of the pocket; he pulled it out to recognize the red yarn string from before, the very string first used to keep Beatrice near, and then to fasten the scissors to his trousers’ belt loops. Little of the yarn remained, enough to tie over his wrist, but otherwise no point in keeping it. He tucked it back into the pocket. Maybe he could use it again to tie the scissors to his pants again—not out of distrust for Beatrice, but to make sure he would not lose the scissors. Beatrice needed them.

If he were to ever lose them before they reached the Garden Wall…well, Wirt would never forgive himself.

He departed his room for what would be the last time, and made his way to Greg’s room next door. He opened the door to see Greg still in bed, fast asleep. “Greg, wake up!” he called from the threshold.

Greg stirred. “Unnnnff, sleepy time—”

“No, you’ve slept in enough already. We have to go.”

A huff originated from the lump burrowed in the sheets before they flung over to the side. “Holy moly. I feel gross,” Greg grumbled. “Did we eat something funny yesterday? It’s the lavender pudding. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten a dessert made from flowers.”

“Don’t worry, we’re on our way back today. You’ll be fixed up in no time.” No time could mean a day, or two, or another seven—

And yet, that thought struck less of a panic than it should have.

Greg dressed himself in his own cleaned clothing, complete with the teapot as a hat. He scooped the frog into his hands and followed Wirt out the door. “Goodbye bed,” he waved as the door shut behind them.

The final breakfast, where Wirt saw Beatrice’s bluebird-self next to a plate of maggots and seeds, was sentimental and melancholy. Greg, who had always been an early bird who loved the morning, remained unusually quiet as he ate his porridge. Even Endicott’s chipper and stream-of-conscious demeanor was unnatural and forced. Wirt realized it was the bittersweet shadow of the last breakfast shared amongst such good company; he felt its effects, too. A gloom to the end of a week. An era.

Later, Wirt would consider the time spent with Quincy Endicott and Margueritte Grey to be among his favorite memories concerning his time over the Garden Wall. Their own stories, the decadent meals, the room he slept in, the instrument room, getting hopelessly lost in the corridors, watching Endicott and Margueritte smile and lightly tease each other, Fred the Horse, the school fundraiser, the late nights spent talking with Beatrice. He would savor every one of those memories, no matter how infuriating they had been at the time, especially getting lost in the hallways.

Especially Beatrice.

Standing at the gates, Wirt adjusted the cone hat on his head. Greg stood next to him, now doing better with some food in his system and more perk in his step. Beatrice sat on Wirt’s shoulder; her favorite spot to sit, he noticed. Endicott and Margueritte stood before them, their backs to the gigantic courtyard and their immense dwelling. “Here is some snacks for you to eat on your journey,” Margueritte smiled, handing a basket over to Greg. Wirt recognized it was the basket they stole from Adelaide’s shack. They peered inside to see an assortment of finger foods.

“And here is some money for the ferry, along with some extra in case you stumble across an inn or decide to stop at the markets for a souvenir,” Endicott added, offering a handful of coins into Wirt’s palm. He could not identify any of them, but made a mental note to ask Beatrice when the time came.

“Thank you for everything,” Wirt said after dropping the coins into his free pocket. He wished he could offer them more to show his gratitude, but he had nothing except his words. And even then, his words failed him; he could not think of a line of poetry, his own or another’s, to encapsulate how grateful he was for their hospitality and their friendship.

Endicott and Margueritte both smiled at him. “It was a pleasure,” Endicott said. His eyes fell on Wirt’s shoulder. “Now, Beatrice, make sure they get back safely—”

“The same goes for the two of you!” Margueritte interjected. “Take care of your friend.”

“Okay,” Wirt and Beatrice said in unison.

Margueritte bent down to hug the two boys, and they shook hands with Endicott. Final waves of farewells exchanged, Wirt and Greg stepped through the opened gates, and into the woods.

_Into the unknown._

* * *

The McLaughlin Brothers ferryboat was an old-fashioned steamboat—old-fashioned to Wirt, that is. One sight of the vessel instantly transported him to a Mark Twain novel. He expected the passengers to also fit the antebellum aesthetic as well, and to an extent, they did. Their attire did, at least. Wirt and Greg were the only humans aboard; everyone else, excluding Beatrice, were tall frogs dressed in human clothes and standing on their hind legs. They spoke in croaks and ribbits.

“It’s George Washington’s friends!” Greg exclaimed. His frog in his hand, considerably smaller to those walking on the decks, kept quiet, staring blankly at the sight before them.

“Oh, relax,” Beatrice groused in Wirt’s ears. She must have picked up on the tension in his shoulder muscles from the sight of anthropomorphic amphibians. “At this point, all of this should seem commonplace to you.”

“And you took this ferry to the markets?”

“Of course,” Beatrice replied. “The frog people are harmless. They would harm a fly because that’s what they eat, but they’re peaceful people. It’s autumn, so not as many humans take it at this time, like they do in the spring or summer.”

“Weren’t you weirded out by the animal school?”

“The frog people are an entirely different species. It’s different.”

Wirt tried to picture the situation Beatrice did. He sort of understood it; from his observations of the frog people, they were more like humans than the animals from the Langtree School for Animals. And Beatrice was right; after everything else he had witnessed, what more were humanlike frogs?

He paid for entry onto the ferry—“the two smallest gold coins; that should cover us all,” Beatrice whispered to him—and they milled about as they waited for the boat to collect all its passengers and head downstream. Wirt and Greg unofficially designated a small area of the ferry’s stern as their own, but the frog people paid no attention to them. Wirt, however, spent the time with further scrutiny. A band was setting up on a stage several yards before them, complete with one frog whom Wirt assumed to be the maestro. A smile tugged at his lips when he saw one of the red-and-gold glad frogs carrying a bassoon.

Within thirty minutes, the ferry began its journey. Even with the help of the current, the steamboat’s speed was slower than Wirt anticipated. He opened his mouth, prepared to ask Beatrice how long the trip would take until they reached the stop, but quickly changed his mind. _Don’t sweat it, Wirt. This is fine. Just relax for once._

The band played their music—soft and melodious, reminiscent of elevator music but with a certain panache Wirt had trouble identifying, but enjoyed nonetheless. He marveled at the frog people and how they could play the instruments with their webbed toes ( _or fingers?_ ), but they certainly played better than Wirt could ever dream of sounding, even in the comfort of his own room.

“Hey, where did George Washington go?” Greg called out at one point, patting his pockets. “It’s not like him to run off.” He coughed before waddling off go search for his frog.

Wirt leaved over the stern’s rail so he could watch the scenery drifting by. “That boy and his frog, they’ll be the death of me.”

“You should be nicer to Greg.”

Wirt stared down at Beatrice, who was perched on the railing next to him. Her usual acidity and mischief were absent in her voice. She had been firm, but also weak at the edges, almost as if she were too afraid to be saying anything to him. What a contrast to the steadfast and overly-confident Beatrice he knew. “Any particular reason why?” he inquired softly so it would not come across that he was ready to argue with her.

“He’s your brother—”

“Half-brother.”

“He’s your brother, and he’s only seven years old. I understand being annoyed with younger siblings, but sometimes you’re kind of nasty.”

There it was again. Her tone softened with _you’re kind of nasty._

Beatrice was holding back.

“I wasn’t being nasty right now. It was just a joke.”

“It doesn’t matter, I’ve been with the two of you for a while now, and there are times where you are flat out mean for no reason. What if something happens to him? You’ll regret all those mean things. Trust me, I’m talking from experience.” Beatrice’s beady black eyes darted up to his. “I know you’re a good person, so start acting like one to your brother. Promise me you’ll be nicer to Greg.”

“Okay,” Wirt said automatically. He paused, not entirely sure why he eagerly agreed, then added, “If only you promise to tell me something.”

“Promise first, and then I’ll answer anything you want to know.”

Wirt remembered little from his three months as a Boy Scout, but he remembered the “Scout’s Honor” well enough. He mimicked the hand gesture, hoping to elicit some kind of jab from Beatrice. “I promise.”

Beatrice merely nodded her head. _She’s not going to make fun of that? Something’s definitely up._

“Now, tell me...are you okay?”

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

Beatrice turned away. “Um, sure, I’m fine.”

“No you’re not. If you were really fine, you’d say something like, ‘Wirt, really? That’s what you wanted to ask me? God you’re such a loser!’ You would’ve made fun of the Scout’s Honor I made. And you wouldn’t sound like the way you do now, like you’re some sad puppy. Do I need to steal that frog’s bassoon and play it for you?”

“No,” Beatrice denied, a hint of amusement tucked away. “And, I’m okay. Really.”

“You just sound so…uncharacteristically wistful.”

“Good Lord, Wirt, the more you pester me the more I’ll want to bite your nose off!”

He smiled. That was the Beatrice he knew and called his friend.

Silence fell between them, an edge of uneasiness adrift in the space. Wirt watched as the scenery leisurely passed them, the orange, yellow, and red-leaved trees lining the banks of the river. The noontime sun provided a cheery filter to the autumn scene, and the music from behind them added a relaxing aura. Wirt lightly bobbed his head side-to-side when his ears perked at the beginning overture.

It was the song Greg had been humming for the past few weeks, and one of the songs he heard in the tavern. He turned around to watch as the frog musicians played.

 _At night when the lake is a mirror,_  
_and the moon rides the waves to the shore,_  
_a single soul sets his voice singing,_  
_content to be slightly forlorn._  
_A song rises over the lilies,_  
_sweeps high to clear over the reeds,_  
_and over the bulrushes' swaying_  
_to pluck at a pair of heartstrings._  
_Two voices, now they are singing,_  
_then ten, as the melody soars!_  
_Round the shimmering pond, all are joining in song_  
_as it carries their reverie on._  
_Over the treetops and mountains,_  
_over the blackened ravines,_  
_then softly it falls by a house near a stream,_  
_and over the garden wall  
_ _to thee._

Wirt shot a wide-eyed stare at Beatrice. “They can sing in perfect English but not talk?”

“I can’t explain that one,” she answered, outstretching her wings as if she was indicating a surrender.

About to offer just how illogical all of it sounded, Wirt quickly changed his mind, and listened to remainder of the whimsical music. It was a lovely song, but he wondered how Greg could possibly hear it on their side of the Garden Wall. He occasionally let his gaze drift to Beatrice, who remained quiet and seemed lost in the trail of water that the ferry left behind, but also swayed delicately to the music. For Wirt, the entire scene was bittersweet; Beatrice delighted in the music to some capacity, but her denial of whatever bothered her discolored the halfhearted happiness Wirt witnessed now.

Greg joined them at an indiscernible amount of time later, his frog clutched between both hands. “Did you hear George Washington sing?”

“Your frog isn’t like these other frogs, Greg,” Wirt responded unflappably; reminded of the promise he made to Beatrice, he hid back the sound of irritation and opted for a nonchalant answer.

Nevertheless, Greg had his own ideas. “I found him behind the stage when the music stopped. He’s a singing frog. I can’t wait to tell my friends in Cloud City.”

Wirt stifled a groan. “Yeah, okay,” he said, picking up the teapot on Greg’s head and ruffling his hair.

* * *

By the time the ferry stopped, the sun had dipped behind the tree canopies, but the sunlight poked through the branches and trunks. The frog people dispersed into the woods, or into the mud of the riverbank, but Wirt, Greg, Beatrice, and George Washington the Frog stood still.

“Okay…which way is the wall?” Wirt finally asked aloud, hoping Beatrice could answer him.

“I don’t know,” Beatrice confessed seconds later. “I know the way to the markets, but that’s nowhere near where the wall is.”

Before he allowed for panic to set itself loose, Wirt tapped on the shoulder of one of the last frog people to exit the ferry—a “gentle-frog,” he decided, judging from its clothing. “Excuse me, could you give us directions? We need to get to the Garden Wall.”

The gentle-frog and its wife—all assumptions—stared back at them and croaked before walking away.

“Do you know what they said, George Washington?” Greg inquired to his frog. His voice was weary, and a yawn followed shortly after the question. “Wirt, I’m tired. Can we go to sleep?”

“Not yet,” he said, but he had difficulty understanding how Greg could be exhausted when they walked a minimal amount in the morning and spent most of the day on the ferry. “We just need to know which direction to take—” He felt a tap on his shoulders, and shrieked. Beatrice flew off of his shoulder as he spun around.

A human girl with ghostly pallor in her face steadied Wirt before he could stumble backwards from the motion. She was tall, like Beatrice—taller than him, for sure—and a white bonnet kept most of her hair tied back; a few tufts of dark brown, almost black, hair stuck out at the front. Whereas Beatrice from last night resembled a Jane Austen heroine (Elizabeth Bennet; no doubt in Wirt’s mind Beatrice was Elizabeth), this girl looked like she stepped out of a production of _Jane Eyre_. “I apologize!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to startle you so, but I was washing some of my Auntie and I’s clothing in the river, and I overheard you are looking for directions?”

“Um, yes,” Wirt responded, collecting himself. “We’re looking for the Garden Wall.”

Unlike others who had heard the phrase, the girl’s expression read confusion rather than surprise. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about a garden wall, but my Auntie should be able to help. I can take you to her, if you’d like. She can give you directions to anywhere in these woods, even to the northern woods. She knows this woods better than anyone. Maybe she’d even offer some space for you to sleep, tonight.”

“Sleep sounds nice,” Greg said from behind Wirt.

“I don’t know,” Beatrice countered when she landed on his shoulder. “Endicott and Margueritte were happy accidents, but we could always have another Adelaide situation.”

The girl must have overheard this. “Nay, my Auntie is a kind soul. She has looked after me, and she will harm no one. I can promise you that.” She extended a hand to Wirt. “My name is Lorna.”

“I’m Wirt,” he answered, and grasped her hand to shake it. The touch of her icy skin forced Wirt to shiver, and he nearly jerked his hand back from the contact. “This is my brother Greg, our friend Beatrice, and Greg’s frog.”

Lorna let go of his hand and giggled. “Wirt. That’s a funny name.”

Wirt simmered, but remained calm. He shot a glance at Beatrice, then back to Lorna. “Give us a few minutes to talk it out.”

“Of course,” Lorna replied before heading towards a wide wicker basket resting several yards away on the river bank. When she was out of earshot, Wirt turned to Beatrice. He could not read bird expressions, but he figured the one she gave him now was a face of disapproval.

“I know what you’re thinking—”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. You just said so! You think it’s a bad idea to go see someone we haven’t met, and you have good reason to think that because not everyone is as nice as Endicott and Margueritte, so if you don’t want to go, then we won’t.”

“It’s not about what I want,” Beatrice griped. “It’s about getting you and Greg back to the wall. If you think this girl’s aunt can help, then fine. I’m a little wary, but that girl can’t possibly harm a fly. She looks kind of sickly, and I suppose we can trust her judgment.”

Wirt raised an eyebrow. “So…you’re changing your mind?”

“Why do you care what I think? You shouldn’t. You definitely didn’t when you tied me to your yarn,” Beatrice snapped. She flew off of him again, this time landing on top of Greg’s tea kettle. “Okay, yes, I’m changing my mind. There—let’s go get directions!”

Too dumbfounded to retort, Wirt walked several paces towards Lorna, crouched down at the bank to gather and fold the damp clothes and place them in the basket. “Okay. We’ll come with you to see your aunt,” Wirt said.

Lorna stood up, the basket held under her arm. She smiled softly. “Follow me. Our home is not too far from here.”

Wirt beckoned Greg and Beatrice over before turning on his heels to follow Lorna into the sea of trees.

* * *

She realized it the moment they stepped onto the ferry.

She always knew they would be going home, that the ferry would bring them closer to the Garden Wall, and that the time spent with Endicott and Margueritte could never last. Wirt and Greg were strangers in a strange land, and their family probably worried day and night about them and if they were alive and safe. She recognized all of it.

But with Endicott and Margueritte, what surpassed in a week felt more like six weeks. Even with each day growing closer to their departure, taking the ferry was a distant event—a “one day, it will happen, we will get there.”

It was not until Wirt paid for the passage and the two boys’ feet landed on the ferry deck when it all flooded into her realization. They were on their way back, and she was accompanying them. An extra day or two, they would be crossing the wall. The deal she and Wirt constructed would be fulfilled. Her curse would be broken, and she would be clambering over the wall a final time to help her family.

There was something else, though. Another intangible concept, one that made her “uncharacteristically wistful,” strangely similar to whatever she experienced after the school fundraiser. Then and now, it was bleak and pitiable. When Wirt asked her about it—both times—she could not say it to him then. It would mean admitting it to herself.

But now, as they weaved through the forest to…wherever, she could be honest with herself.

Beatrice would miss her friends.

* * *

Lorna’s home—derelict and small, a tad larger than Adelaide’s home—was a fifteen-minute walk from the river bank. Lorna opened the creaking door and placed the basket of clothing to the side. “Auntie Whispers? Are you home? Auntie Whispers?”

No one replied. “She must be out, still. No matter. As soon as she arrives, we shall ask for your directions. In the meantime, I can light a fire for you.” She headed straight to the fireplace to fix a fire, then returned to the laundry basket. “Let me hang these clothes up so they can dry, and then maybe I prepare something to eat?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Wirt answered. “We have some stuff to eat.” He grasped a hold of the basket in Greg’s hand. “See? No need to trouble yourself.”

“I must trouble myself,” Lorna responded without hesitation, as if she were on the defensive. “I have to keep myself busy. Auntie Whispers makes sure I stay busy. It helps with my illness.”

“What illness requires lots of physical activity?” Wirt thought aloud. He slapped his palm over his mouth in hopes it would dissolve his embarrassment, but Lorna only smiled shyly.

“I’ll be back shortly.”

Wirt watched as she exited with the basket. “Something feels…off.”

“Having second thoughts?” Beatrice chirped. She sat on the bare mantelpiece now.

He shook his head. “Not exactly. But it sounds weird. Anyone with an illness shouldn’t be that active. Doctors always recommend bedrest so the body can relax.”

Beatrice was unresponsive to this, but Wirt doubted it was because she was at a loss of what to say. Beatrice always had something to say, even in her gloomy spells.

Greg collapsed to the floor, freeing his frog from his grasp. “I can sleep like this,” he moaned contently. “If only I had a pillow.”

The minutes ticked away as the waited for Lorna to return. No one spoke. Wirt surveyed the interior of the house. Practically barren, save for a table pushed next to the wall, and another wicker basket nearly the size of Greg. He peered over the rim to find dozens of tiny black turtles, all still alive and wriggling about. What Lorna and her aunt could possibly do with this many live turtles was lost on Wirt, but he pondered over the possibilities anyways. He was about to call Greg over and ask for his opinion when Beatrice’s signature irritation rang through his ears. “Ugh, where is this aunt of hers?”

Wirt shrugged. “Maybe she’s a busy woman.”

“Maybe Lorna only brought you here so she could keep you as her pet boyfriend.”

A jolt ran up Wirt’s spine. He gulped. “W-what?”

Beatrice might as well have rolled her eyes as she spoke. “Oh, come on, Wirt, are you really that clueless? The only color she gets in her face is when she blushes just from the sight of you. You’re probably the only boy she’s talked more than three sentences to in her entire lifetime. Apparently you have something going on.”

The goosebumps on Wirt’s neck and arms stood straight up. “S-she p-probably j-just—”

His voice was taken over by voices from the exterior. One belonged to Lorna, but the other, Wirt had not heard before.

“But Auntie—”

The door burst open, and a woman stepped in. She resembled more of a blob, with human limbs and facial features, and she moved lugubriously into the room. Lorna followed behind her, frantic and pleading. “Lorna, you know the rules. You cannot bring guests to our home. You will flare up,” the woman said in a deep, droll voice. Her eyes flicked from Wirt to Greg, and once to Beatrice. “I’m terribly sorry for all of this, but you must leave immediately.”

“Auntie Whispers, please! They need your help—”

Auntie Whispers pulled out a small object out of her wrap. She shook her wrist, and the object rang like a bell. “Please be quiet, Lorna.”

Lorna stepped away sans reluctance, her head bowed down. “Yes, Auntie.”

Auntie Whispers returned her gaze to the boys. “Please leave now, or else you will meet a fate you never wished to have encountered.”

“Oh come on, lady!” Beatrice cried. “That’s no way to treat your niece! She brought us here so we could ask you for directions. That’s all!”

The globule of a woman stared at Beatrice, her big eyes sparked with a curiosity. “A talking bluebird…tell me, dear one, have you come across a witch named Adelaide in your time?”

“Don’t remind me,” Beatrice muttered.

Auntie Whispers reached out to pet Beatrice’s head. “Oh, you poor thing. She’s inflicted you with the animal’s curse, hasn’t she?”

Wirt felt a little hand take his. It was Greg, who now stood next to him.

“Um…yes,” Beatrice responded hesitantly. “How do you know about that?”

“Adelaide is my sister,” Auntie Whispers answered, a softness about her now. “I’m terribly sorry for the pain she’s put upon you. Adelaide was always rather cruel to others.”

“Thanks…”

Auntie Whispers stepped back. “I apologize for the entrance, but I’m afraid you must leave. If it is directions you seek, then I will give them to you, but you must leave once I relay them.”

“Why should we?” Wirt piped up unexpectedly, even for himself.

“Please don’t talk to Auntie Whispers that way,” Lorna remarked meekly. “She’s only looking out for me—and you.”

He frowned. “I know we’ve only known each other for like thirty minutes or something, but you said she looks after you, but you have an illness, and she makes you do a lot of work. That doesn’t sound like she’s taking care of you—”

“Please, you must understand,” Auntie Whispers interrupted, “Lorna’s predicament is different. It’s harmful to others, and this is only for your safety. I’m surprised she’s kept it at bay since bringing you here.” She rang the bell in her hand again. “Lorna—”

Wirt lunged for the bell the same time Beatrice flew at it, knocking it out of Auntie Whispers’ hand. Wirt heard Greg cheering him and Beatrice on as if it were a game. Neither of them caught the bell; it fell to the floor and rolled to Greg, who picked it up.

“Young man, please give me that bell,” Auntie Whispers demanded.

“Don’t do it, Greg!” Wirt screeched.

Greg stared at the bell clutched in his hands. “Umm…”

A heavy breathing emanated from behind Wirt. He froze at the sound, but he turned around when Auntie Whispers own voice spoke up—a disappointed sigh. “Oh, it’s too late for you now. She’s gone wicked.”

There he saw Lorna—or, a thing that vaguely resembled her. Twice her size and a mouth full of sharp, feral teeth, he screamed and scampered to his feet, snatching Greg’s hand and running out of the door. “ _Oh fuck_ , she’s a flesh-eater spirit?!” Beatrice hollered as she flew next to them. “I thought flesh-eaters were extinct!”

With little sunlight left in the sky to light the way, Wirt sprinted past the trees as rapidly as his scrawny legs could, but Greg was something of a dead weight. Lorna, or the flesh-eater, pursued after them relentlessly. He racked his brain for ideas on how to shake her, but he knew nothing of flesh-eaters—or anything on this side of the wall, other than what Beatrice told him and what he had experienced already. The bell in Greg’s hand rattled with every step forward.

“The bell!” Beatrice shouted the moment the idea snapped into Wirt’s mind. “Greg, use the bell!”

“To play music?”

“To tell the evil spirit _to not eat us_!”

“Wait!” Wirt shouted to Beatrice, a fear-stricken train of thought piecing together in his mind. “It’s a spirit inside her, right?”

“Yes!”

Wirt seized the bell out of Greg’s hand, another idea in his brain. He stopped in his tracks, his upper body rushing forwards with all the momentum. His legs throbbed and ached from the running ( _maybe that’s the secret to passing the mile test in gym class; pretend a flesh-eating spirit is chasing after you_ ), but he urged himself to spin around and face the spirit hurtling towards them. With a tremble of his wrist, the bell chimed. He hoped this would work. “Spirit, leave Lorna forever! Never return to her, and go far away!”

For a moment, Wirt feared his spur-of-the-moment plan would not work; the spirit kept flying to them, and he was ready to dash away once more. But at the last second, the spirit halted abruptly, and a wisp of white fled out of Lorna’s mouth. Lorna—back to her original size, her mouth free of predator teeth—tumbled to the ground. The wisp bolted to the now-dark sky, growing smaller as it went further up.

“That...worked?” Wirt mumbled under his breath. He stared at the bell in his hand, and watched it dissolve from his sight, much like the spirit. “W-w-what if it didn’t? We could’ve died!”

“Really? You’re worried that we _might’ve_ died after it’s been established we _haven’t_ died?” Beatrice groused.

“But we could’ve!”

“Guys, look!” Greg pointed to Lorna, who laid on the ground. They approached Lorna’s body cautiously; Wirt crouched down to check her pulse.

“Is she alive?” Greg asked.

Before Wirt could nod, Lorna shifted in her position. “Unnh…” her eyes opened. “H-hello? What happened?”

“You were a ghosty thing,” Greg informed with his own splash of color. “But we ran away, and then Wirt told the ghosty to go away.”

Lorna struggled to sit up. “You dispelled the flesh-eater?” she whispered timidly.

“Uh, yeah,” Wirt answered.

Lorna swung her arms around his body. “Oh, thank you, Wirt!”

Wirt swallowed and patted Lorna’s back and she held him tight to her. “Sure thing…”

A sharpness pinched at at his side; out of reflex, Wirt removed himself from Lorna’s embrace and rubbed at the pain on his waist. “ _Ahem_ ,” Beatrice grumbled. “Sorry to break this up, but don’t you think now that everything is fine, we should get Lorna back to her aunt and ask for those directions?”

After helping Lorna up from her fall, she thanked them endlessly, and insisted they return to her home. They met with Auntie Whispers at about halfway to the shack. “Lorna! Are you—”

“They saved me, Auntie Whispers!” she cheered. “They banished the flesh eater!” She embraced Auntie Whispers with a warm smile.

“Oh, Lorna. This is…I don’t know what to say.” Auntie Whispers looked up to Wirt, Greg, and Beatrice. “Thank you for helping my Lorna,” she said. “I am graciously indebted to you. I can give you those directions to wherever you wish to go, but perhaps I can offer accommodation for the night. You would have to sleep on the floor with blankets and pillows, as there is little space, but it is better than sleeping outside on the ground in this cold night.”

“And maybe some dinner?” Greg suggested. “I can’t go to sleep on an empty stomach.”

Both Lorna and Auntie Whispers chuckled at him. “Of course,” Lorna replied. “I would be happy to fix a meal for you. I even have some seeds for you, Beatrice.”

At their shared shack, Lorna cooked a small meal, but Wirt could not tell what exactly the meat was (it would not surprise him if it were turtle meat, but he pretended it was a specially-prepared chicken dish). Beatrice pecked away at her seeds. They listened to Auntie Whispers tell the story of Lorna’s possession—among others.

“I suppose I should start with my sister and I,” she began once the meal was placed in front of everyone. “Adelaide and I grew up witches, learning the craft and all the different enchantments and spells. We were quite inseparable, enjoying this whole world so few people have the chance to understand!” She smiled for a brief moment, but it quickly dissipated into a frown. “But then Adelaide grew hungrier for what we were taught, and she started to dabble with black magic. I tried to convince her not to succumb, but she liked it too much; she liked having the power, and it came to the point where I could no longer view her as my sister, but someone I feared, someone who would not hesitate to put me in harm’s way for her own benefit. I refused to use my own magic except only when absolutely necessary, and a few enchanted items from my past that I can’t quite part from, but I left Adelaide for good.”

“She died,” Beatrice interrupted. “From the cold wind.”

Auntie Whispers closed her eyes. “Oh, yes. I remember warning her about that. Dark magic takes its toll physically. She might possess a great power, but the body must focus all of its energy to such immensity. It leaves the body brittle and susceptible to the elements, and no amount of magic could ever fix that.”

Her eyes fell upon Lorna, a smile returning to her lips. “Yes, well, years passed, and I grew lonely. I always felt I made the right choice to say goodbye to Adelaide, but I missed the company of someone else. It was many years after my last encounter with Adelaide when I found a baby in a basket not too far from this home. It was Lorna, wrapped in a blanket. With her was the bell. I took her in, and early on I realized what the bell was for. The flesh eater had come to her at such a tender age, and I knew I had to keep her from others.” A tear strolled down her cheek. “I am so sorry for not banishing the spirit earlier, my dear child. I was selfish, afraid you would want to leave me.”

Lorna patted Auntie Whispers’ arm. “I would never leave you, Auntie. You took me in as family when my own parents left me to die, and I love you.”

When the plates cleared away, Wirt sat at the fire while Lorna, Greg, his frog, and Beatrice played a clapping game. Auntie Whispers sat next to him.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said.

“It is I who should be thanking you,” Auntie Whispers replied.

Wirt rubbed the top of his head nervously. “It’s not a problem, really, I was just thinking on my feet, and, well, you know the rest.”

Auntie Whispers stared into the flames. “I tried to convince myself I was doing good, keeping her sheltered and not releasing such evil into the world, not to inflict such a possession on someone else. I kept telling myself it was for the greater good. Flesh-eaters, rare as they are, live long lives, and can only die from starvation. Some think they were once the Beast’s pets, and he crafted the bells to control them, but as time went on, they died out.”

Wirt bit his lip when Auntie Whispers mentioned the Beast, but he let her continue.

“I let her survive off of black turtles, gave them enchantments so their skin tasted like human flesh and she could live. I even started to eat non-enchanted turtles so she would not feel so odd eating them. But I was so selfish, keeping her locked away. When I departed my sister for good, I grew lonely, and I saw an opportunity for myself. “

“You took her in when no one wanted her, and looked after her. Lorna hasn’t forgotten that.”

“Yes, all is well, I suppose. She might have forgiven me, but it will take me many years to forgive myself. I should have banished the flesh eater earlier.” Auntie Whispers eyes now fell upon Wirt. “Have you ever been consumed with guilt, dear boy?”

“No,” he said. It had been the truth—until the monosyllabic word left his mouth, and an acridness filled within him. In the split second after, he knew it was now a lie.

“Oh well,” Auntie Whispers sighed. “I love Lorna, and I only want what is best for her. Now—these directions of yours. Where is it you are going?”

“The Garden Wall. We came on the ferry, but I want to make sure we are on the right path. We’ve been gone long enough, and—”

“ _The Garden Wall_? Why on earth would you want to go there? Don’t you know of the dangers?”

“Y-yes, I think, but my brother and I are from the other side—”

Auntie Whispers glowered. “How long have you been here?”

“Almost two weeks now.”

“Oh my,” Auntie Whispers exclaimed in a hushed tone. “And you have yet to encounter the Beast? You ought to consider yourselves lucky; he tends to prey upon souls who crossed, and within a matter of days. Especially when crossings are few and far in between.” She hesitated. “Well, it explains your brother’s coughing, and his exhaustion. It surprises me you don’t exhibit any of those signs, however.”

Wirt sweated anxiously as Auntie Whispers eyed him from head to toe.

“Aye, I can give you directions. You are not too far; perhaps two day’s journey on foot, but we are close to the markets. You might be able to find a taxi carriage willing to take you there for a decent price.”

“I have money,” Wirt declared, patting his pocket.

Auntie Whispers nodded. “Good then. I will give you those directions in the morning, so that they will be fresh in your memory for tomorrow. Tell me, your bird friend—will she be joining you?”

“Yes. Beatrice and I…we have a deal of sorts.”

The former witch glanced over her shoulder. Wirt did the same; Greg had retired to a corner he designated as his own, blanket tossed over him and a pillow underneath his head. Beatrice and Lorna were enraptured in a conversation of their own. Lorna held up a mirror to Beatrice’s bird body, but at the angle she held it, Wirt could not see the reflection.

“And will she be crossing the wall?” Auntie Whispers questioned, her sight back on the fire.

“Yes. She wants to see the other side.”

Auntie Whispers shook her head solemnly. “She would be able to see your side of the wall, but at a terrible price.”

Wirt raised an eyebrow. “W-what do you mean?”

“She’s inflicted with the animal’s curse—my sister’s handiwork, no doubt. Does she ever turn into a human?” Wirt nodded. “Ahh, yes, Adelaide’s idea of a forbidding practical joke.”

“She cursed Beatrice’s whole family.”

“She’s gotten meaner in our old age.”

Before she could start reminiscing, Wirt asked, “What do you mean ‘at a terrible price?’”

“Oh, yes,” Auntie Whispers replied, her voice inaudible enough for Wirt to inch closer so he could hear her properly. “Growing up studying magic—you learn all there is to know, including the rules. The one rule that we were constantly reminded about was how our magic stays within the bounds of these parts. That means magic becomes obsolete and mundane once it crosses the wall.”

A pit dropped into Wirt’s stomach. “I—I don’t understand.”

“It means she can speak as a bird and turn human on this side, but if she were to cross that stone boundary, her curse would become more...permanent. She will lose the ability to speak as a bluebird, and she will not be able to transform back into a human.”

The pit erupted into dread. “But—” he racked his brain for questions, and answers, and quickly remembered the scissors in his pocket. “What about these? These break the curse, don’t they? They’d still work, right?”

Auntie Whispers sighed, forlorn. “Oh, I remember those. Adelaide’s own invention, in case she ever felt like breaking someone’s curse, but I doubt she ever did.” She pressed her lips together. “I’m afraid not if she were to return as a bluebird to this side. Those scissors will only work on this side before she were to cross. They would only harm her if she crossed and then returned, even if you kept the scissors on this side.”

Wirt shoved the stork scissors back into his pocket. “Are you sure? What if we crossed when she was a human?”

“I cannot speak about that, but I wouldn’t risk it. The Garden Wall is merciless. It has lasting effects on everyone.”

He stared back at Beatrice, who still talked to Lorna.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of such news, but it is best if she did not cross at all.” Auntie Whispers stood up at the end of her words. “I must go to bed now. Lorna,” she called out, “don’t stay up too late. You must let these weary travelers sleep, for they have a big day ahead of them.”

“Not to worry Auntie, for I must go to sleep as well.”

Auntie Whispers ascended up the stairs. Lorna herself retreated to the back room to fetch Wirt his own pillow and blanket. “Here you go, Wirt. And, again—thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Wirt answered, taking the items from her. In the firelight, he noticed a rosiness to her face; her hands were not as cold as before. Lorna smiled and bade goodnight to him and Beatrice before entering the back room again.

Wirt settled himself next to the fireplace. He tossed the blanket over him and curled into a fetal position on his side.

“Mind if I share the fireside with you?” Beatrice asked.

“Oh, uh…no, go ahead.”

Beatrice dropped directly in front of him. He turned onto his side and rested a hand on his stomach, palm facing upwards. Beatrice flew into his hand; he closed his fingers around her.

“What a day, huh?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Wirt? Are _you_ okay?”

“Just peachy,” Wirt answered curtly. He sat up. “Are you doing any better?”

“Being chased by a flesh eater brought some of merriment back to me,” she said, her characteristic snark finding its voice once more. “Probably all that adrenaline. I could use that sleep, though.”

“Hey, Beatrice?”

“Yeah?”

He wanted to say it then and there, but the shock was ever-present, and durable. The revelation punched him in the stomach, weighed his shoulders down, tightened his throat, cast a shadow within him.

“Good night.”

“Good night, Wirt.”

For ten, maybe fifteen, minutes, Wirt stared at Beatrice’s round bluebird body resting in his hand. She was already fast asleep; he could see it in the way her body shrunk into a tighter ball, and her black eyes were shut. Her blue, white, and orange feathers felt like suede on his fingers—soft, velvety fuzz, delicate and fine. She was fragile, even if her personality and words were not. She abhorred when he commiserated her, and he tried not to do so out of her request, but he could not help himself. Beatrice’s predicament and burdens disheartened him. The beginning of their time together was rocky and belligerent, and Wirt thought they had moved past their shared tribulations.

Except now, with the knowledge he received from Auntie Whispers, Wirt was only bringing Beatrice to what might as well be her death ( _The lives I live make life a death/For those who have to live with me_ ).

All he could do was pity her.

Except—

_No—_

He could do something else.

Like Auntie Whispers had said, he should have done it sooner. He should have insisted upon it when he first learned about her curse back in the wardrobe. A few days had passed since then, but the time in between felt longer, as though he shared the burden with her for months, maybe even years. Nothing would change his mind about this. He held the power to help his friend, and yet he kept it from her. Out of selfishness? In the beginning, definitely. After the armoire? Maybe; it was harder for him to determine if that was the case. But he could make right. He could help her.

Beatrice, who both intimidated and amused him, deserved this.

Because Beatrice was more than a friend.

She was his closest friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist!
> 
> It might not look like it, but this story is coming to a close! The next update might take longer than usual because I will be on a road trip vacation with the family for over a week. I will try to write during my down time, but have no fear. I cannot possibly forget this story because I love writing it too much! 
> 
> Poetry credit: “Guilt” by John Betjeman. And, music wise, "Over the Garden Wall" from, well, OTGW (episode 6, "Lullaby in Frogland").


	15. Unbearable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of blood

“I think it is time, Woodsman.”

The Woodsman glanced at the eyes. “Tonight?”

“No, not tonight, unfortunately. But our precious time is running out, so we must be prepared before they reach the Garden Wall.”

He stared down at the lantern in his hands. His conscious tugged him in two opposite directions. Was he to sacrifice a minor kinship for actual kin, or give up everything he suffered through for the sake of two boys he knew nothing about? He pulled the lantern up to his face so he could gaze into it.

“Your daughter is safe, I can assure you that, Woodsman,” it said, as if reading his thoughts. “This will help her. You should know this.”

The light of the fire seeped through the closed lantern’s door. In the corner of his eye, the Woodsman swore he saw the light shine itself on it, and instead of black and shadow, he saw wood. Edelwood. It was too quick of a motion, too quick of a sight, for him to examine any further.

He turned from it and bowed his head to the ground. “Do what you must.”

* * *

Flesh eating spirit aside, Lorna was nice. Sheltered, frail, and sickly, even after the flesh eater left her; her pale skin grew pinker, but it was obvious she saw little sunlight in her lifetime. But Lorna was sweet. She spoke daintily—quiet and sugary. Her smiles were small and tight-lipped, but authentic. She scooped a handful of seeds into a saucer and placed it in front of Beatrice, and happily fixed a dinner for her guests, Auntie Whispers, and herself. After dinner, she gladly taught Greg a clapping game; Beatrice knew it well because she played it with her siblings as they grew up together. Greg seemed to show an interest, but his weariness overshadowed his desire to play. To which Lorna keenly stood up to retrieve a pillow and a blanket for him, with a cheery “Good night, Greg!”

Beatrice liked Lorna. She really, _really_ did.

However, she wished she were a human at the moment so she could gag at how Lorna carried herself around Wirt and Greg. Specifically, Wirt. Beatrice could not possibly care _less_ whether or not Lorna fancied Wirt (Lorna could do better than Wirt)—it was Lorna’s _behavior._ Her smiles were larger, and her face healthier looking from all the blushing. At dinner, she kept staring at him, and when Wirt caught her gaze, she shrank in her chair and attempted to hide her laughter by holding a hand up to her mouth. Beatrice mentally groaned whenever she saw it, and lost track of how many times it occurred (Beatrice only realized she was counting until the word _nine_ filtered in her mind). Lorna was too obvious, and Wirt was too…oblivious. Not as much as when Beatrice mentioned it before the entire flesh eater near-mishap, but he continued to act unaware of how much Lorna looked at him. The entire dinner situation grated on Beatrice’s skin ( _feathers_ ); she fought the urge to yell at the both of them.

After Greg nestled himself a spot in the corner, Lorna returned to her seat at the dining table. Beatrice, atop the back of one of the rickety chairs, absently watched Wirt converse with Auntie Whispers. The house was small, but they spoke quietly enough so their voices never came above a gentle murmur.

“May I ask you something, Beatrice?”

 _Oh great_. Here came the interrogation about Wirt. Not that Beatrice minded talking about him. She could talk about him as much as Lorna wanted to hear. _But her damn overtness._  

“Yeah, sure.”

“How did your curse occur?”

“What?” Beatrice asked flatly.

“You have the animal’s curse. How did it happen, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Beatrice told her woeful story concerning Adelaide’s bluebird, the dream, and her family. When she finished, Lorna sat back, her mouth agape. “Oh, that’s so awful. I wish I could help you in some way, just like you helped me.”

 _I didn’t help you. Wirt did._ “Don’t worry, Wi— _I_ have it covered.”

“How so?”

Beatrice paused, in search of how to tell the truth without bringing Wirt’s name into the mix. She feared if she mentioned him in passing, Lorna _would_ steer their discussion into territory Beatrice preferred not to speak about. Not that she minded—but it was better for Lorna in the long run. Beatrice’s eyes, however, betrayed her; she turned to face Wirt, who remained enraptured with whatever Auntie Whispers was saying at the moment.

“Are Wirt and Greg helping you?”.

“Yes,” Beatrice muttered, defeated. “Wirt and I…have an arrangement.”

“So he’s considerate?”

“Yes,” Beatrice repeated, but this time, she sounded grateful. She had to be. For all the misgivings in the beginning. Wirt had been _more_ than considerate. Not so much with Greg, but she hoped the new promise they configured on the ferry would change that. Beatrice kept her bird eyes upon Wirt and how he gleamed in the fire’s glow behind him.

Beatrice noticed Lorna had left her seat, but before Beatrice could wonder where Lorna went, she popped out of a nearby door, almost skipping the two or three steps to the table. She held an object in her hand, pressed against her chest. “This is a mirror,” Lorna whispered excitedly once she sat in her seat, “but not just any mirror. Auntie Whispers enchanted this mirror when she was my age, and she keeps it around as a memory.” Lorna stared at herself in its reflection, but Beatrice could not see the reflective plate. “It’s supposed to show yourself—your _true_ self, sort of. I spent many a night looking at this mirror, and—”

“You’d see the flesh eater?”

“Sometimes,” Lorna’s smile drooped. “Many times, actually. But not always. On occasion, I would see myself—just myself, not a flesh-eater, but a sad version of myself. Now,” she rested her fingertips on the glass, “now I see a happier version of myself.”

Beatrice inched closer to Lorna so she could peer over the edge of the mirror and see what Lorna saw, but Lorna abruptly flipped the mirror over, causing Beatrice to back away and nearly stumble from the suddenness. Lorna was right; instead of a bird staring back at her, Beatrice saw her human reflection. Her tied-back red hair, her many freckles, her blue eyes, her blue dress over her shoulders. And a  strange sheen of red discoloring the mirror.

“Is it dirty?” Beatrice asked, but realized how stupid of a question it was.

Lorna maneuvered herself so she saw both Beatrice’s and her reflections. Lorna herself gave off a lustrous shine, a yellow so pale it could be mistaken for white. “No, not at all. Auntie Whispers never taught me how to read this mirror properly, but I think that color indicates you’re conflicted.”

As a bird, Beatrice glowered at her reflection. The human Beatrice in the mirror crinkled her nose. “Conflicted? About what?”

Lorna shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. It’s only something you can uncover for yourself.”

Beatrice flicked her eyes to Greg’s sleeping body in the corner, his frog huddled next to him. He slept unperturbed from all around him, serene.  Her eyes traveled back to Auntie Whispers and Wirt.

“Oh, it’s changed to a pink,” Lorna indicated. Beatrice stared once more at herself, and watched how the rosy pink, floral and soft, darkened to the brick red from earlier. Human Beatrice in the mirror scowled again.

Lorna set the mirror down. “You’re pretty, as a human, that is,” she complimented after a beat.

Beatrice thanked her, but her mind preoccupied itself with what she could possibly be conflicted about. One particular idea wormed itself into her mind, but she discarded it before it dwelled in her any further.

“I haven’t seen the pink before,” Lorna continued, “I wonder what it could mean.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“It happened when you looked away, when you looked at Auntie Whispers and…” Lorna trailed off, and a stillness developed between them. Beatrice stood solid and wooden, afraid of what Lorna would say. “Do you fancy—”

“ _No_ ,” Beatrice curtailed. _Not this again._

“Oh,” Lorna said in her delicate voice.

The awkward pause did not last long; they spoke for several minutes extra about nonsensical topics before Auntie Whispers announced it was time for her, and Lorna, to sleep. Lorna giddily passed on a blanket and a pillow to Wirt. A bitterness budded inside of Beatrice, but she shook it off when she approached Wirt at his spot in front of the fireplace. He sounded off-kilter and uneasy, but Beatrice chalked it up to her own thoughts and confusion.

 _Confliction_.

* * *

“Did you say something?”

Beatrice looked up at Wirt from her favorite spot on his shoulder. “No.”

“Greg? Did _you_ say something?”

“Nnhh,” Greg managed to respond. “Nnno.”

“I swear I heard someone say something,” Wirt scratched his head.

“Maybe you’re going crazy,” Beatrice offered.

Wirt kept quiet.

They left Auntie Whispers and Lorna’s home a few hours prior, after a light breakfast Lorna had prepared for them. Auntie Whispers relayed directions to Wirt and Beatrice, which Wirt wrote down on a piece of paper and a quill pen Lorna eagerly provided (Wirt was astounded at the quill pen, but Beatrice stayed silent and let him relish the small moment), before they stepped out of the door. “It is about two days’ journey on foot alone,” Auntie Whispers had said. “Two and a half days, if you delay yourself at the markets.” They waved their goodbyes to their hostesses—a brightness to Lorna’s face—and walked according to the directions.

Based on the sun’s curremt position in the sky, Beatrice guessed it was the early afternoon. Wirt and Greg walked with the autumn wind, biting and violent, pushing them forward. She counted the Edelwood trees they passed since departing from Auntie Whispers and Lorna. Three. Now four. She pushed away the dread that accompanied a mere thought of the Edelwood tree. Even if she was unclear of what their purpose was and how they related to the Beast, she detested the concept of them. Instead, she focused her eyes on the path ahead of them. Several yards ahead, a wooden post jutted out of the ground, adjacent to a normal tree. Beatrice flew off of Wirt’s shoulder and headed straight to the post. A sign had been tacked to it.

 _Woodland Markets_  
_(Autumn, October-December)  
_ _5 Miles Ahead_

“Hey!” she cried to the two boys behind. Wirt shuffled faster to her, but Greg struggled to keep up with his brother. He panted once he stood next to Wirt. Beatrice dipped one of her wings so she could point to the sign..Wirt pulled the directions out of his pocket and read those, his eyes moving back and forth from the wooden sign to the paper in his hands. “We’re on track,” he said finally.

“Yes! That’s a good thing,” Beatrice said. Wirt folded the paper up and slid it back into his pocket; he bit his lower lip and cast his gaze off to the side. “Right?” He said nothing. “Wirt?”

“Hmm?” Wirt sprung his chin up so he could look at Beatrice. “Oh, yeah, that’s a good thing. Let’s go forward—unless,” he crouched down to Greg, hands on Greg’s little shoulders, “do you, uh…do you want to take a moment to stop and have lunch?” Wirt removed one of his hands from Greg’s shoulder so he could fasten his hand around the handle of Adelaide’s basket.

Beatrice stared at the sight, a desperate longing to be a human so she could smile.

Greg nodded, and dropped to the ground, bum first. “Are there any flies for Peter to eat?”

“Peter? Oh, the frog. No, no flies for him to eat. Sorry,” Wirt apologized as he sat next to Greg and placed the basket in front of them. “Oh, look.” Wirt dragged out a folded napkin. “Margueritte packed some seeds for you, Beatrice. I didn’t see that yesterday,” He opened the fabric and splayed it over a patch of dead grass. Beatrice descended to it and pecked at the seeds while Wirt handed some of the foods to Greg.

“Do you want some of this bread?” Wirt inquired. In between his thumb and his first two fingers, he held a chunk of broken-off bread to her beak. She pulled her head away and glared up at Wirt, doubting if he was being serious, but Wirt pushed the bread a little further. She clamped her beak around a corner of the chunk, which was large enough that she had to set it down next to her seeds and bite at the risen dough in piecemeal. She thanked him once the bread disappeared, a few crumbs as the last remnants, a leftover pile of seeds as well.

Though she had finished, Wirt and Greg had not. She observed them as they ate. Greg, usually ravenous and hardly chewing before swallowing his bites of food, nibbled on his food at a pace unlike him. Sluggish. Listless. He chewed on a banana, but handed the residual two-thirds to Wirt. “I’m not that hungry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. He stood up and reached over to pick up his frog. “I’m okay.” He coughed.

Wirt exchanged a glance with Beatrice before packing up the basket.

* * *

Beatrice heard music. Lilting and calm—the music of the markets. Yards away, in between the tree trunks, stood the backs of the outer stalls.

“C’mon,” Wirt said; he turned to the left and guided Greg with his hand.

“Where’re you going?”

“That’s the markets, isn’t it? I thought we could spend some time browsing.” The wind pushed against their sides now.

“But we have to go,” Beatrice countered. She tried to hold out a wing to point in the direction they were supposed to follow, but the tip hit Wirt’s jaw; she retreated the wing to her side.

“Yeah, but we have time to look around,” Wirt continued on. The music loudened with each step. “I keep hearing about these markets but I haven’t seen them yet. Well, we’re here now, so it can’t hurt to look around. Just an hour or two, and then we’ll be back on the road. Is…is that okay?”

In the back of her mind, Beatrice knew she had to say a firm _No_ and insist the brothers head back to the wall. This was unlike Wirt. The Wirt from earlier, before their stay with Endicott and Margueritte. That Wirt would not want to waste time. She had not seen that Wirt for some days now. He changed—ever so slightly, not enough for it to be a complete shift so that he was unrecognizable. But it was the little aspects of his behavior, and Beatrice picked up on them over the days. Now, there was less edge to Wirt’s neurosis; it was still present, but not when it came to the Garden Wall.

A warm glint sparkled in Wirt’s eyes, the semblance of a smile on his lips.

“Okay,” she accepted despite the contempt of her conscious. If it meant to spend a little more time with Wirt and Greg without thinking of the looming time constraint, then she could pretend it was like being with Endicott and Margueritte again.

“What was that?”

“I said okay.”

“But didn’t you say something after that?”

Beatrice shook her head as much as a bluebird could.

“I’m hearing things,” Wirt grimaced.

They passed through the stalls to the market scene. There were considerably less people than there would be in the spring or the summer, or even in the early days of the autumn market, but the scene was not inactive or dull by any means. Beatrice’s mind drew back to her own memories of the market. She remembered a few of the vendors, like the Carson Brothers Tea stand, and the specialty jam maker. Troubadours and other entertainers paraded about, a mishmash of music and words milling in the atmosphere. The smell of baked apples and cinnamon enlivened her attention.

“So, this is the market,” Wirt announced a few paces in.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “It’s not as busy, but you still get the flavor.”

“It’s nice. You don’t see many of these where I’m from. They used to exist, I think, and some of them still sort of do, but they’re different. And there aren’t any near where I live.”

As they walked, passersby smiled at them. Or Wirt and Greg. A few waved their greetings. Some even vocalized them. “Are people usually this friendly?” Wirt questioned after a man tipped his top hat and ushered a “Good afternoon.”

“Maybe?” Beatrice offered, a poor answer. When she visited the markets before, a handful of people greeted her out of kindness—an older sibling with her brothers and sisters was always a pleasant sight. She wanted to accept that it was the same with Wirt now, as he held onto Greg’s hand, but she could not remove the feeling that it was not the entire case.

Before she could elaborate on this, Wirt turned a corner and glided to a stall ahead that sold knickknacks and trinkets. He stayed silent, but his eyes broadened as he gingerly touched the various items. He swiped the pad of his index finger over the glass face of an antique pocket watch. “Oh _wow_.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes at his awe, but it warmed her spirits. A little. _A tiny bit._ A mirror and the color pink flashed in her mind. She shook her body as if water had doused her, and the dampness oozed underneath her feathers.

“You should’ve seen the music player I sold a few weeks ago,” the man behind the tables jumped in. “Fancy contraption called a phonograph. That thing was magnificent, and I almost didn’t sell it because I wanted to keep it to myself.”

“I have seen it!” Wirt exclaimed. “I think. You sold it to Quincy Endicott, didn’t you?”

The vendor nodded with a face of pleasant surprise. “Why, yes. He was mad about it, and the price he offered was generous, but a part of me didn’t want to let it go. It was the only phonograph I ever saw, and it was stunning.”

“It was,” Wirt enthused. “I got to take a look at it a few days ago.”

Beatrice listened as Wirt and the vendor talked more about the selection of objects for sale. Wirt’s passion mimicked the kind he had for his poems, and the way he spoke about his world. Like everything else melted away.

“I thought you were going to buy something, like that pocket watch,” Beatrice teased after Wirt left the stand. “You were really into that conversation.”

Wirt shrugged at this, and said nothing. The talkative and fervent Wirt from minutes before gave way to a reserved and timid Wirt, a Wirt whose mind wandered elsewhere.

“Wirt?”

“Hmm?”

“Is something bothering you? You’ve been off all day.”

“Well, I…” he stopped languidly. “Never mind.”

Greg coughed, a throaty prolonged cough painful to Beatrice’s bird ears. Wirt’s shoulders tensed underneath her feet. “Do you want something to drink, Greg?”

“Yes please,” Greg pleaded.

“Where can I get water here?”

“Umm, I don’t know. But there’s a beverage seller around here. They sell all kinds of drinks.”

In the next row over, they found a stall that sold specially crafted drinks in glass bottles. Beatrice suggested Wirt buy the birch beer, one of her favorites from her memory. He purchased one bottle and, once they sat off to the side out of the path, he split it between him and Greg.

“Mmm.”

“Is it good?”

“Yeah!” Greg managed to sound his chipper self despite the physical weakness creeping over him. He spilled a little onto the ground in front of him, and held his frog to the pool of birch beer. “Try some, Peter!”

The frog blinked.

They perused the rest of the markets—Wirt even bought him and Greg two apple tarts, the apple and cinnamon Beatrice smelled before. Wirt spent a solid thirty minutes or so in the book stall, paging through various titles, fiction and nonfiction alike. He whispered some of them out loud. Beatrice leaned in so she could hear him; Wirt must have caught on to this because he stopped saying the words, but he would mouth them. In which case, Beatrice watched his lips open and close, forming inaudible words.

“I think we should go now,” Beatrice suggested once they left the book stall. “If we spend extra time here, we’ll lose the sunlight, and then it’ll be an extra day until the wall.”

“Okay,” Wirt gave in. She ignored the reluctance in his voice.

They retraced their steps back to the path in the woods, and they walked maybe a few strides forward when Beatrice caught sight of a horse and carriage not too far from them. For a moment, she thought it would be Fred and Endicott, but was inevitably disappointed to see the horse was black instead of Fred’s light brown. The carriage was less decorated as Endicott’s, too. “Oh, it’s a taxi! Maybe we can convince the driver to take us to the wall.” She soared off of Wirt’s shoulder and darted to the man with the horse’s bridle in its hand. “Excuse me—”

“A talking bluebird!”

“Yes, well, I was wondering if—”

“Get back!” He swatted at her.

“Cheese and crackers! I’m trying to offer you some business here!” she screeched as she averted his hand. She felt other hands on body, and she was pulled back to Wirt’s chest.

“Sorry about that,” Wirt apologized to the driver. “She’s um…well, never mind. Sorry.”

The driver stared down at them. “Can I help you with anything?” he asked with a twinge of scorn.

“Can you take us to the Garden Wall?” Beatrice shouted up to him. Wirt placed a hand on her head and held her close to his chest.

The driver gave a common look of appall, with his eyebrows raised and jaw dropped, but he said nothing of it. “I will take you to a glade seven miles away from it.”

“Oh come on, we have money to go the whole way!” Beatrice groused.

The driver shook his head. “seven miles only. No one dares go any closer to that wall. You’re lucky if I take you at all.”

Beatrice snarled, but she looked up in surrender. “Okay fine. How much?”

“Eight gold coins..”

“What! No way—”

“Then you’ll have to walk.”

“Ugh, fine,” Beatrice accepted, and she cursed under her breath. “Wirt, give him the money.”

Wirt did so, and they filed into the carriage. Greg stumbled unceremoniously next to Wirt, and exhaled heavy breaths. “You okay, Greg?”

“Mhmm,” Greg nodded. Another cough followed without hesitation.

The carriage plodded along. Greg hummed at the beginning of the journey, but stopped after a few minutes. Despite the afternoon sun shining into the window of the carriage, Beatrice closed her eyes. Partly exhaustion, partly relaxation. With his thumb, Wirt stroked her wings, and it was the rhythmic motion that sent her into a moment of reassured bliss. He was not so talkative in the past few hours, but he kept a hold on her, protected and pleasing. Maybe even more so today, regardless of the distance he projected in their other interactions.

“This is it!” the driver cried from his seat after the carriage halted. Wirt opened the door and climbed out, while Beatrice flew out.

Greg did not join them. He slept on his seat, basket and frog on his sides. Wirt nudged him to wake up, but Greg only moaned and turned away. With a sigh, Wirt pulled Greg out enough to the carriage’s doorway and positioned himself with his back to the door. He wrapped Greg’s arms around his neck and situated his arms underneath Greg’s legs, then reached back into the carriage for Greg’s frog and the basket of food, one in each hand.

“The wall is seven miles to the south,” the driver noted, pointing in one direction. “Why you want to go there is beyond me, but I’m not here to question your decision, only to take you to them.” He drove off in the opposite direction.

“Are you comfortable like that?” Beatrice inquired to Wirt. With Greg’s arms occupying Wirt’s shoulders, she flew beside them.

“Not really, but I’ll be okay.”

With the sun now dipping behind the trees and the sky a gradient of blue, purple, orange, and yellow, they walked in the direction the driver pointed out. They exited the glade and marched an extra fifteen to twenty minutes or so, when Wirt fell behind Beatrice’s flying. “Never mind, I’m not okay. I don’t think I can carry him like this for any longer,” he acknowledged, embarrassed and drained. “He’s not heavy, but he is deadweight.” Wirt placed his brother on the ground next to the base of a tree. “We better call it a day.”

Beatrice landed on Greg’s tea kettle, which Wirt had propped at Greg’s feet.

“There’s still some daylight. We can walk just a little further.”

“There’s no moving him. He’s out.”

Wirt sat next to his brother and reached into the basket for some nuts and another roll of bread to eat. “Do you want your seeds?”

“Uh, sure.”

He laid out the napkin with birdseed, and Beatrice poked at the morsels, but she was not hungry. She was more worried over Wirt, with his discreetness and conflicting actions (there was that word again, _conflicting_ ). And Greg, with the obvious sickness and total physical fatigue. Wirt and Greg.

She waited for him to finish the makeshift meal. “Wirt?”  

“Yeah?”

She flew to him. He instinctively held his palm out for her. “Please tell me what is wrong.”

“You wouldn’t tell me what was wrong yesterday.”

Beatrice knew he was trying to make light and avoid the upcoming discussion, but she would have none of it. Not now, not when they were less than a full day’s walk from the wall. “Wirt, _seriously_. Don’t joke around because you’re bad at it, and don’t make this about me.”

Wirt contorted his face. He was weighing on whether or not to share his ponderings. He closed his eyes, and the tensions in his face eased, but the look on his face was not one of serenity. “It _is_ about you.”

In the strained silence, Beatrice prepared to ask him what he meant, but Wirt placed her on the ground before him. “What’re you doing?” she asked instead, bewildered at the motion.

“I’m breaking my end of the deal,” Wirt stated, a righteousness to his demeanor and tone. His face was now hard-lined, and his eyes darkened. Frantic confusion wrapped itself around Beatrice. Break his end of the deal? What could that mean? With all his poetic and cryptic words, she demanded an explanation. As she opened her beak for interrogation, Wirt shifted in his seat and shoved a hand into his pocket.

Beatrice glared up at him. “Wirt, no—”

“ _Yes_ , Beatrice,” he interrupted decisively. “I…I should’ve done this earlier.” The scissors in his hand sparkled in the remnants of the late evening sunlight.

“ _Wirt_ —”                                           

“I know you said it was okay for me to keep them until Greg and I got back to the wall, but I’m _not_ okay with it,” Wirt cut in.. “You’re not some object to pass along, and you’re not a talking bluebird, either. You’re a cursed human, and you’ve suffered long enough. I’m releasing you of your burden.”

He lowered the scissors towards her but Beatrice backed away. “No. Not yet.”

Wirt’s eyes widened. “Please, Beatrice, I feel awful. If you cross that wall, you’ll be a bluebird forever.”

A pit in her stomach opened. “What are you talking about?”

Wirt’s mouth formed a straight line. “Auntie Whispers told me your curse will be permanent if you cross to my side of the wall. You’ll never turn into a human again, you won’t be able to speak, and these scissors will only damage your wings. Even if you come back to this side, you’ll be a bluebird forever.”

The words punctured Beatrice’s heart, and the heart dropped into the pit. “What?” It was more of an involuntary sigh than a controlled whisper. “And you’re only telling me this now?” She was supposed to be angry over this, but the surprise news overshadowed that. A bluebird. Forever. Not able to talk. Helpless to her family, to anyone, to herself.

Wirt bit his lip and affirmed this information with a nod. “I’m sorry about that. I should’ve said something when I found out, but I was too shocked…and then with Greg today…I’m sorry I got you into our mess from the first day, but I want to make everything right.” He outstretched his scissor-free hand. “Please, Beatrice, you’ve helped Greg and I out so much—”

 _No, I haven’t._ “I led you astray so I could escape—”

“But you’ve stayed with us to make sure we get back safely—”

“I haven’t really led you anywhere—”

Somehow, even when he was attempting a good deed for her benefit, and she yearned for him to help her, Beatrice _needed_ to argue with him.

Only this time, Wirt refused to surrender. He would not accept her rejection, dripping with self-loathing and self-doubt, as an answer. She saw it in his amber eyes. A fiery and unrelenting determination. “You’re my friend, Beatrice!” Wirt snapped. “You’re the only friend I’ve ever _really_ had. Let me do this for you!” The wind knocked the cone hat off of his head, but Wirt paid no attention to it. His eyes fixated on her, and Beatrice felt smaller than a bluebird. She was more of a bug. A beetle. An ant. “You’ve done so much for me in such little time. You listened to me and even gave me advice, in your weird way, and you’ve helped me look after Greg, so _please_ , Beatrice, let me return the favor.”

He made it sound like she deserved this. Beatrice did _not_ deserve this. It was why she allowed for Wirt to keep the scissors after he learned about the curse. Making sure they returned to the Garden Wall in exchange for a pair of scissors that would break her curse—a chance to earn the end of her curse. But here was Wirt, insisting he cut her wings _now_ , not even a day’s journey from the Garden Wall, neither of their sides of the deal upheld, not yet. Out of pride, Beatrice considered flying away and never looking back. Except, what good would that bring her? She would be farther away from the chance to break her curse. Wirt and Greg would be lost again.  

Against her own defiance, she indulged in what she sought after for the last several months.

She outstretched one of her wings.

“You have to cut it at the base,” she declared as steadfast as she could, but her nervousness seeped itself into her voice, a slight quiver.

She waited for Wirt to pinch the tip of the wing and lightly pull it outwards so it stretched an extra few millimeters. Beatrice involuntarily twitched when he did so, but kept firm. He situated the wing in between the slender metal blades. Bird and boy, they suspended themselves in the frigid late evening air. Beatrice held her breath. Maybe Wirt did, too.  

 _A few seconds of pain are worth a lifetime of humanity_ , she reminded herself. For a fleeting second—or two, or three—Beatrice thought the line could be one of Wirt’s poems.

The sudden pain ignited at the bottom of the wing’s base; it traveled upwards as the blades closed together. Beatrice exhaled once she felt the wing detach off of her body, her entire left side sore and throbbing. “Are…are you okay?” He sounded breathy, as if he also felt the harrowing pang. “Oh God, you’re b-bleeding,” he sputtered.

“The other one,” Beatrice commanded, too agonized and exhilarated to talk about how excruciating she felt. “Do the other one.”

Whereas the first snip was drawn out and careful, the second was hasty and unclean. It hurt more, but the pain lasted for a shorter time. Without thinking, Beatrice hopped away. Still a bird. A wingless bird, but a bluebird nonetheless.

“Beatrice?” she heard Wirt murmur.

She walked further away in response. Waiting. Afraid the scissors were faulty and had not worked.

Then it happened.

Human limbs. Human hair. Human skin. No beak. A nose.

Beatrice opened her eyes—she never noticed they were closed this whole time—and slouched her shoulders. She faced almost barren trees. With the last of the sunlight, the sky was an appeasing light purple color. The wind splashed across Beatrice’s skin. She shivered. She sat on the ground, her dress swathed over her legs and around her shoulders. Over half a year’s effort culminated in thirty seconds, maybe twenty. In the daze, everything stilled around her.

Where was Wirt?

Beatrice whipped her head over her shoulder. Wirt was stooped to the ground, his hands free of the scissors, but stained with blood. He picked up the scissors and thrusted them back into his pocket, but his eyes engrossed on her. They stood up at the same time, a mirror of each other, neither of them breaking their eye contact.  

The subsequent two or three seconds were a blur; Beatrice remembered wrapping her arms around him and embracing him tightly, not the hurried steps she took towards him. “ _Thank you_ ,” she spurted. No filter.

Wirt dropped his arms around Beatrice and held her closer to him, rubbing his hand up and down her back. “It’s…it’s okay…” he soothed.

“ _Thank you_ ,” she repeated, hoarse and vulnerable.

Beatrice hated crying. She abhorred the reddened eyes, the salty tears, and scorched skin that crying caused. But Beatrice did not cry now.

She wept.

She wept into his shoulder; the cloak he wore soaked up her tears and muffled the sound. Still holding her, Wirt lowered himself to the ground. The motion guided her to her knees, but she leaned onto his shoulder.  “Thank you,” she said once more, when the sobs dissolved into heavy breaths, and she removed her face from the damp spot on his cloak. She sniffed.

“You’re welcome,” Wirt whispered.

He reclined his back against the tree trunk. Not ready to let go of the security and warmth Wirt provided with his arms, gangly as they were, Beatrice adjoined herself next to him. As if he understood how she needed his safety, Wirt outstretched the arm closest to Beatrice over her shoulders and pressed her against his side; the cloak fell over her arm and torso. She rested the side of her head on the edge of chest; she curled her legs as close to her upper body as they could go. One arm wedged itself in between their bodies, the other dropped in the valley made between her torso and her legs. Her fingertips brushed against Wirt’s waist.

 _Well that was a change of events_ , she thought.

No, she never deserved this.

* * *

They watched the last of the sunlight disappear in the sky. Nighttime shrouded over the trees, over Greg, over the huddled mass of Beatrice and Wirt. Neither of them spoke. Wirt was too preoccupied with listening to Beatrice breathe. The blood on his hands dried into reddish brown stains, but he only cared for the girl on his side. And the way she rested into him.

“Don’t think you’ll get rid of me so easily.”

Beatrice lifted herself off of him now and faced him. In the darkness, Wirt barely made out how the whites of her eyes were red; a weakness lined her face and saddened her voice, but the satisfied smirk was genuine.

“What?”

“Just because you fixed my curse doesn’t mean I’m not going to stop helping you get back to the wall.” She tried to come across as casual and unaffected, but her voice trembled.

Wirt drooped his shoulders. “I wasn’t—this isn’t—”

“I know,” Beatrice affirmed as she rested a finger to his lips. Her cool skin burned against his own flesh, a bittersweet sensation all together. “I just want _you_ to know I’m still holding up _my_ end. I promised I would see you and Greg to the wall.” Her smirk turned into a less mischievous grin, and she removed her finger from his mouth. He missed the touch. “And see Sara, of course.”

“Sara?” He forgot about her in the past thirty-six hours. But then again, he stopped thinking about Sara long before the events with Lorna and Auntie Whispers.

“Yeah. You know—proof you went over the wall and all—”

“No,” Wirt rejected, thinking on his feet. He had done plenty of that lately. “We’re breaking that clause, too.”

Beatrice stared at him pointedly. “You don’t want me to meet Sara?”

“If we happen to see her, then whatever. I think you would be good friends. But it’s not a requirement. You’re not an object I can just give in a box wrapped in a bow. You’re…” Too many words described Beatrice, and yet none of them worked. “You’re Beatrice Fraser.”

“Okay…” Beatrice sounded weirded out from this. “I still want to see your world, and I want to hear you play clarinet.”

“Of course.” Wirt stuck out his right hand. “Let’s shake on the amendments.”

Beatrice grasped his hand and shook it up and down twice. Wirt released his grip, but Beatrice held on. She tugged at his hand and pulled him forwards. Wirt panicked at what Beatrice intended to accomplish as her face drew dangerously close to his, her breath grazing his skin. He felt her lips against his lower cheek, soft and quick. She released his hand, and she retreated back into the huddled position. Something oscillated in his stomach. “A new and improved deal,” she uttered a moment later.

“I’m sorry,” Wirt blurted.

“For what?”

“Everything. Being stupid. Forcing you to stay with me. Keeping the scissors from you as part of a deal. Almost worsening your curse. Not telling you about it. Not talking to you when I should’ve.”

Beatrice giggled. “All excellent evidence of how dumb you can be.” The joke fell flat from her feeble voice, but Wirt appreciated the attempt, even if it was at his expense.

“Is Greg okay?” Beatrice piped up a few seconds afterwards. She peered over Wirt’s chest, the tip of her nose mashed against his side.

Wirt’s eyes settled on his brother. Greg slept on his side, his face away from the two, and his tea kettle hat at his feet. Wirt heard gentle snores originate from the mass. “I think so. He’s getting worse with this cold.”

“Then let’s hope the driver’s directions are correct. We should be close enough for the two of you to be back before the late afternoon,” Beatrice informed.

Wirt arched a brow. “Wait…what? Are we really _that_ close?”

Beatrice stared up at him and nodded. “Seven miles, remember? You sound distressed over that. Going home.”

Wirt searched for an answer to provide, but processing what he felt at the moment proved difficult. “I don’t know what to think anymore,” he confessed. “I’m kind of…”

“Conflicted?” Beatrice filled in for him.

“Yeah. I don’t know why. I should be glad I’m finally going back. And I kind of am because Greg and I’ve been here for a while now. But not as much as I should be.” A melancholy smile adorned his lips. “Maybe I’ll miss this place, as weird as it can be. Uh, no offense.”

Beatrice, however, showed no sign of taking offense. Rather, she sat up and faced him again, her brows furrowed. “Can I tell you something?”

Wirt laughed. “Since when do you ask for _my_ permission?”

Beatrice slapped his upper arm. He winced from the pain. “I’m trying to tell you something important here,” she hissed.

He sighed. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

Beatrice now bit her lower lip, indicating a hesitancy. Beatrice never struck Wirt as the type to beat around the bush, but here she sat before him, fretting over whether or not to tell him whatever was on her mind. “I don’t think you belong on your side,” she spurted.

Wirt wondered if he misheard her. “What?”

Beatrice inhaled sharply before continuing. “Well, take all the things you’ve told me about your life. You stay inside your room playing clarinet and writing poetry for no one in particular. You pine over a girl you know almost nothing about and you’re not even friends with. It sounds like you don’t have any friends, and you barely see your biological father. Sounds like you’re a real loser back home.”

“Oh, thanks a lot.” Wirt soured. Over the days, he grew accustomed to Beatrice’s playful insults and teasing. Except now, Beatrice was serious. Maybe even concerned, if he pretended her words had no effect on him.

“I mean—” Beatrice began, but she palmed her face at the realization of what she had said. “I _mean,_ here, on this side of the wall, it’s different. _You’re_ different, sort of. The first time you rode a horse, you somehow knew what you were doing. You somehow knew what to do when it came to Lorna. All those people greeted you today. When Endicott and Margueritte told you about the ferry—the Wirt from before would’ve _insisted_ on having Fred take us closer to the wall so we wouldn’t have to wait for the ferry. But today I did all the haggling with the taxi driver because you wouldn’t do anything!” She paused to look away before staring at him again, her eyes direct and sharp. “You played the bassoon for me.”

 _That’s not a good example,_ Wirt thought at first, just for the sake of retaliation. But Beatrice was right. Asides from Greg, no one heard Wirt play clarinet. Bassoon was not even his instrument, but he struggled through playing it so Beatrice could feel better. And she was not only correct about the bassoon. Within the almost-two weeks over the wall, he also sensed something different about himself. Still himself, but less worried.

Less determined to return.

The touch of Beatrice’s hand on his arm shook him from his own thoughts. “I think you belong here.”  She professed. “It feels like you were meant to be here, but life made a mistake and put you on the wrong side of the wall.”

“Yeah, but I can’t stay here forever.” This reaction was a mix of both Wirts speaking, old and in-progress. Old Wirt meant those words _._ In-progress Wirt implied he wanted to stay.

“Why not?”

* * *

Beatrice froze.

_Crap. Shit. Fuck. Goddammit._

* * *

Wirt straightened his spine from the electricity that sparked up it. A noise escaped his mouth, caught in between a scoff and a sigh. “Are you suggesting I stay?” he murmured. He could not look her in the eye just yet, so instead, his eyes fell to his lap. Beatrice’s hand reached over for his; he flinched when her thumb imprinted into the center of his palm, but remained still. He disintegrated at the lingering contact.

“I’m not trying to suggest anything,” Beatrice remarked. “It’s just an observation. That’s all.”

Beatrice might think it was _just an observation_. Not for Wirt. It was an observation, but not _just_ an observation.

“And you really think that?”

She nodded, slowly, then confidently. The corners of his eyes recognized a dejected look on Beatrice’s face, but he neglected to stare up at her. “Please don’t be mad at me—”

“I’m not mad,” Wirt interrupted. “I don’t know what I am right now.” Not _mad_. Troubled, maybe, but not mad. And not about to accept what Beatrice had said, either. Why was that? His mind raced for his own answers, but nothing sprung to mind. Nothing that sounded logical to him, anyways.

“Wirt, it’s not something to get all distraught about.”

Aware of how she still held his hand—thumb in the palm, the other four fingers against the back of his hand—Wirt jerked it away from her. “Then why’d you mention it?” he griped, his voice louder and terser than he intended. Greg stirred next to him, and they both held still to see if he had woken up, but Greg kept sleeping. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to be rude. But it’s…I don’t…” He pressed the heels of his hands to his temples, elbows pointed outwards. He groaned. He clutched his legs to his chest and propped his forehead on his kneecaps. Another groan.

“I didn’t say any of that to make you upset, really. I just wanted to tell you.”

“I’m not upset,” he fibbed. He _was_ upset. But not with Beatrice. “But why would you want to tell me that?”

Beatrice opened her mouth to respond, but her eyes fell to the minor patch of ground between them. “I don’t know,” she admitted under her breath several seconds afterwards.

The wind rustled the leaves up above. A few fell into Wirt’s lap and into Beatrice’s hair. Wirt restrained himself from reaching out to remove the dry foliage from her head. In replacement, he turned his back to her and shifted downwards, lying on his side. “Goodnight, Beatrice,” he said out of necessity, not in the mood to turn this into an argument and lash out at her.

“You’re being passive aggressive,” Beatrice growled in a hushed voice so as not to wake Greg. “It’s not like I’ve maliciously attacked you.”

“Goodnight, Beatrice,” he repeated blandly.

“Wirt, why are you so fucking stubborn? I wasn’t trying to upset you. And don’t say you aren’t upset because you _are_. You can talk to me.”

“Goodnight.”

Wirt clenched his eyelids shut. He heard Beatrice heave a sigh and shuffle to the opposite side of the tree trunk.

He was more than upset. He was also uncertain, and puzzled. Whatever stirred inside of him from before flared, inflamed, and boiled. Not the feeling from when Beatrice shared her opinion with him, but earlier, after he cut her wings and snuggled. _Snuggled? Isn’t that romantic sounding? Cuddled isn’t any better. Clustered. Or huddled. Nice and neutral._ Perhaps it was an amalgam of both?

Why would she say it? Why would she say it the day before he was supposed to leave? What did it mean ( _How firm Eternity must look/to crumbling men like me)_?

Tonight was not supposed to be confusing, frustrating.

 _Conflicting_.

* * *

She watched as the two boys walked through the trees. The taller and older one had a bluebird on his shoulder. The smaller and younger one held a frog.

“Hello?” she called out to them, but they ignored her. Like everyone else. “Oh, _please_ …please, can you see me—”

“Did you say something?” The boy in the cone hat and cape asked to the bluebird.

To her surprise, the bluebird answered back. “No.”

He turned to the small boy and repeated the question, but the boy, presumably his brother, denied it.

“I swear I heard someone say something.”

Her heart dropped. No one else had heard her before. “I said something!” she cried, but none of them glanced in her direction. She followed them as they furthered on, determined to get the boy to hear her again. He did, miles later.

“What was that?”

“It was me!”

“I said okay,” the bluebird answered.

She huffed, but this was more progress she had in...how long had it been now? A year? Maybe longer? She followed them as they wandered in the markets, but she lost them when they boarded a carriage and left. Her legs could not keep up with the horse’s clops.

But she walked in its direction, following the horseshoe prints in the mud.

* * *

When Greg woke up, he tossed and turned on the ground for several minutes--ten, or twenty. He sat up, his eyes bleary and crusted. Darkness, trees, stars. A hum in the woods. Frigid air, solid ground. Wirt was asleep next to him, and he heard Beatrice’s breaths from behind him. Beatrice the human, not the bluebird. Peter the Frog was careless and calm. “What a life,” Greg mumbled to himself. It would be great to be frog.

His head felt like cotton candy. Which would be delicious, except it felt bad. Dizzy. If this was a cartoon, there would be stars circling his head.

“Hello, Gregory,” a deep voice greeted. Greg rubbed his eyes and turned to his right. He saw nothing but two white circles.

“Hi,” Greg replied.

“You’re not feeling well?”

Greg shook his head. “I feel gross. Like, _gross_. Not like I want to puke, but not my happy healthy self.”

“I see. Perhaps I can help you.”

“You can?”

“I _will_.”

Greg stared up at the eyes, no longer white, but light colored rings. He wanted to go with this man—he thought it was a man, at least, even if he could not see him, or it—but he held back. “My mom says I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger, Gregory,” the voice answered, smooth and liquid. Like Greg’s grandfather. “I’ve been with you all this time. Without me, these woods wouldn’t prosper. You could never see me, but I’ve made sure you were safe.”

“You have?” Greg looked upwards, where some stars twinkled in the blackness. “Like a Guardian Angel?”

“I suppose you can call me that.” There was some motion, like hand extended towards him. “Come with me, just for a little while, Gregory. I can take away this sickness and pain you’ve undergone.”

Greg stood up, not entirely by his own will. “Will I be back before Wirt and Beatrice wake up?”

“I can’t promise that. But you will see them again.”

As it sang, Greg walked away from Adelaide’s basket. From Peter the Frog ( _still not a good frog name_ ). From Beatrice. From Wirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like writing this fic so much, I write for and update it while I'm on vacation. As I celebrated my birthday on this vacation (21!), it is only fitting I gift my readers with another chapter. I don't know why the chapters get longer, but they do. The beverage vendor that they visit is loosely based on Ole Doc Bell's Wizard Elixir, a staple at any American Civil War reenactment. Birch beer is sort of like root beer, made from herbal extracts and birch sap.
> 
> Poetry credit: "How firm Eternity must look" by Emily Dickenson.


	16. Unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celebrate France's Bastille Day (or _Fête nationale_ ) with a new chapter!

_Will I be back before Wirt and Beatrice wake up?_

_I can’t promise that. But you will see them again._

Something cold pricked at Wirt’s nose and ears. He tossed and turned on the solid ground, eyelids sealed shut and unwilling to open. The wind wailed around him; he pulled his woolen cape closer to him. In the distance, dwarfed by the howl of the air, a groveling but suave voice sang. It weakened, a sign that it was travelling away from the tree Wirt braced against. Drops of coldness peppered against his exposed skin. With a second wriggle, Wirt’s foot kicked at Greg’s teapot. The clang of the metal opened his eyelids, and he darted his eyes to the sleeping Greg to make sure he still slept—

“Greg?” he whispered.

There was no Greg. Just a tea kettle, Adelaide’s basket, and a frog where Greg _had_ slept.

“Greg?” he called out again, an octave higher from before. At the rustling noise behind him, Wirt spun around, hoping to see Greg returning from a casual nighttime stroll or from the necessity of relieving himself. Instead, it was Beatrice, who slept undisturbed. She stretched a little.

In the moonlight, silvery and whimsical, Wirt saw snowflakes falling from the sky. The ground remained uncovered, suggesting the snow started just minutes before he woke up. If it were not for the panic in his chest and the tremor of his hands and the lack of Greg, Wirt could easily craft poetic verses over the beauty of the sight.

“Greg?” he repeated once more, just in case Greg was close by, _about_ to come back from his nighttime stroll. Wirt chose to remain in denial of what was so clear and obvious to him. His legs wobbled as he stood up, and he pinched himself—one last time to assure himself he was not dreaming. He pinched himself as hard as his fingers could come together in between his skin; it would not surprise him if a bruise were to form at the spot later. He sighed and picked up the tea kettle and the lug of a frog. The frog croaked from the contact, and Wirt dropped the amphibian into the kettle.

“You’re as useless as Jason Funderberker.” Wirt glared at the frog, who blinked back at him.

He chose a direction at random and stepped forwards, hopeful that Greg would not be too far, and that he would remember his way back to the tree. He refused to accept the alternative likelihood. He walked against the wind and shivered. The beautiful woodland night scene curdled with the terror of a missing younger brother.

* * *

Beatrice shuddered herself awake. Light snow dusted the ground before her, and more snow drifted down to join the translucent white patches. She breathed into the palms of her hand and rubbed her upper arms to warm herself. It was too early in November for snow, but at the same time, she ignored its presence.

In the corner of her eye, Beatrice recognized a red item rolling over to her. It was Wirt’s pointed hat. She grabbed the rim and twisted her waist to pass the hat over to Wirt, regardless of whether or not he was asleep. “Here you go, you—”

She was alone. No Wirt. No Greg.

“Wirt? Greg?”

Beatrice scrambled to her feet. “You guys, are you there?”

No frog. No tea kettle.

Beatrice’s chest constricted before her heart could be released into an abyss. _No. No no no no no nononononono_ —

Tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them from spilling out. She clutched the red cone hand to her chest, and she shivered in the cold. What happened? Where could they have gone? When did they leave? Why would they leave without her? _How_ could they leave without her? Desperation clung to every thought processing itself in Beatrice’s mind, every motion she took. This direction. No, this one. No, the opposite one.She had not even taken a step away from the tree, and yet she was already questioning which path to take. No visible footprints led the way, no indication of where the boys would be. She closed her eyes and released an exhale.

 _They’re fine. They’re okay. You just have to find them. They’re fine. They’re okay. You just have to find them_. _They’re fine. They’re okay. You just have to—_

Her eyes fluttered open, weary and frightened. She stepped to the south—Beatrice _hoped_ it was the south, based on her memory of where the taxi driver had pointed—and sprinted.

* * *

Wandering. Wandering. Endless, but not listless, wandering.

Beatrice called out their names until her throat grew hoarse. She swallowed some saliva before repeating the process all over again. “Wirt! _Greg!_ ” She stopped for brief moments to rub her arms and attempt to warm herself, but it came to the point where her fingers froze numb, and no amount of hot breath would heat them up. The snow would go away soon; it was one of those light snows meant to tease people for a later, heavier snowfall. Only the snow was not teasing her now. She suffered in it, each step a struggle forwards.

Beatrice thought she was going south to the wall, not entirely sure why she chose to go that route in hopes of finding Wirt and Greg, but it was likely she lost track of the path and made an inadvertent turn somewhere. She possessed a terrible sense of direction, even as a bluebird. In hindsight, the irony to act as Wirt and Greg’s guide would have sent Beatrice into a fit of laughter. The current situation, however, led her to think less humorous thoughts. Not about to let those dreary ponderings win over and coerce her into giving up her search, Beatrice shoved her fears down and carried forwards. One hand held onto Wirt’s cone hat, flinging at her side. The other grasped a fistful of her dress’s skirt so she would not trip over the hem and delay herself. _They’re fine. They’re okay. You just have to find them_.

The last time she ran in this frantic manner, she had a sprained arm, and she was fleeing _from_ Wirt and Greg. She found Adelaide instead, and the witch almost kept her forever as her own little pet. _“You’ll never break that curse, my dear. Not without the stork scissors. But you’ll never be near them. You’ll never leave. Don’t think of this as imprisonment. Think of it as finishing the debt you caused when you killed my bird.”_ When the two brothers stumbled across the witch’s cottage, it was the first time the three of them became an unlikely trio. Wirt, with the scissors, Greg, the (unintentional) distraction,, and Beatrice, the one who opened the window. _“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll keep my eyes on you. I stay inside on cold days like these. The winter will be my death_ ,” Adelaide had said  to her before Wirt and Greg arrived. Whatever clicked in her mind, Beatrice flew with it and opened, with all her might, the window that killed Adelaide.

And now, Beatrice was running to _find_ those two boys. The ones who elicited a happiness and warmth she stopped experiencing after the curse. The ones who made her smile and made her _want_ to be a better person, a better version of herself. Greg—his happy-go-lucky attitude, his whimsy, his optimism, his thoughtfulness. Wirt—his poetry, his music, his cynical dreaming, his security, _his_ thoughtfulness. Her friends, her closest friends, her _best_ friends. She _needed_ to find them before any harm came their way. Especially Greg, with his sickness. Especially Wirt, with the chance to tell him that maybe, _just maybe_ —

Beatrice jogged in this stretch, the snow flurrying against her and settling into her loosening hair, when she squinted. Ahead, she scarcely made out a clearing from behind the trees. Without a second thought, she pushed forward.

She stopped in her tracks at the line of the trees, and gulped once she saw the sight before her.

The open, frosted meadow stretched flat and barren to a tall and wide structure.

The Garden Wall.

Had she really travelled seven miles in her solo nighttime trip? From all the running, and the sprinting, and the exasperated speed-walking, it only felt like she covered three miles. Maybe it was the agitation and delirium brewing inside of her motivating her to go so far in such little time. Or, the taxi driver’s directions were a little off and she was closer than she thought. And there was always the inadvertent chance of stumbling through a shortcut no one knew about.

When was the last time she saw the Garden Wall? Thirteen years old, the butcher’s son, her first and only kiss—it flooded back to her, the grayish memory not worth remembering, but hazy enough for her to latch onto the important details. The butcher’s son, one ( _or two_?) years her senior, the bottle of rum he stole, the lazy and gross kiss they shared. Her memory of it was probably worse than it actually was. Back then, he talked about the wall and all the speculation and mythos around it. Something about another place, wildly different but similar at the same time. At thirteen, she thought nothing of them other than tall tales this boy was sharing with her to sound worldly and intelligent. Now, she knew not all of those stories were as fictitious as she once thought them to be.  If it were not for the anger, desperation, and anxiety tearing at her sanity to the base brick by brick, she would find this setting pretty, with the moonlight poking out of the slate gray clouds and the gradual, placid snowflakes. Greg would play in the snow, and Wirt would compose verses of poetry while she juggled to interact with both of them—romping around with Greg and teasing Wirt.

_Wirt and Greg._

The coil in her stomach tightened at the thought of the two. They were gone, amidst the snow, the moonlight, and the trees, and their boundary stood in its infamy. She gripped the cone hat in her hands to the point her knuckles whitened. She glanced back up to the wall and glowered at it, an unfortunate idea sifting into her mind.

What if they crossed the Garden Wall _without_ her?

With Wirt’s behavior from earlier—passive-aggressive, distant, an insistence that he was not upset when he so visibly _was_ —she would not put it past him to take Greg and head for the Garden Wall himself, breaking his promises for one last final and devastating time. They were close enough to make the journey back on their own, even in the dark woods. Her eyes watered, not just from the cold wind blowing against her face, and a lump swelled in the back of her throat.

 _How could he do that?_ How could he leave her without a goodbye, without her having the opportunity to say farewell to Greg and wish that he would heal in good time? If Wirt did not want her joining him over the wall, he just needed to say so. It would have hurt, but not as much as it did now. Beatrice wiped away the tear trickling down her cheek, the only warmth she felt in the time since she woke up.

She was ready to turn back and run away, ready to let her sobs escape and herself crawl into a ball and let the night do with her what it wanted until the morning came. Forget about Wirt and Greg, forget about ever seeing the place she heard about in Wirt’s stories. Go her separate path to find her family and snip their wings—

 _Oh, that asshole_.

She stormed for the wall.

_They’re fine. They’re okay. I’m going to kill him._

He never even bothered to leave the scissors behind.

She was going to cross that wall, find Wirt, slap him until he was senseless and could not remember her taking the scissors away from him, and return to her side to help her family.

 _He could’ve left the damn scissors_.

The wall grew larger with her every step, and she cursed at it along the way. Stupid wall. Not stupid Greg, with his loving and happy demeanor, his care for everyone, his sweet imagination, his untarnished youth. But _stupid Wirt_ , with his stupid cone hat and his stupid cape, his stupid name, his stupid height, his stupid faint freckles, his stupid golden-brown eyes, his stupid hair, his stupid bent nose and big ears, his stupid poetry, his stupid bassoon-playing, his entire stupidity. Stupid Margueritte and stupid Lorna for thinking Beatrice would ever have feelings for him. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ Beatrice for throwing a rock at Adelaide’s bird (and stupid Adelaide, too, for turning her _into_ a bluebird), for agreeing to Wirt’s demands, for thinking they were friends, for entertaining the thought that Margueritte and Lorna were right.

Lost in the incoherence of her rage as she fumbled to lift herself off the ground and onto the wall, she nearly missed the voice from above.

“Oh my God!”

Startled, Beatrice fell back to the ground, her bum thudding first, and looked upwards. Sitting at the top of the Garden Wall, legs dangling over, was someone. The voice was feminine, but in the darkness and the distance, Beatrice could not see whomever it was. She saw some motion, followed with a soft _click._ A bright white light shone down at her. Beatrice squinted.

“Oh _my God_.”

Against her better judgment, Beatrice scrambled to climb the Garden Wall for a second time. It was not too different from climbing a tree, but the task took its toll, especially with a cone hat occupying one of her hands. She hoisted her bottom onto the plateaued width of the wall, a gap of at least eight inches in between her and the other person. She panted once she situated herself at the top. The light followed her. Closer, Beatrice noticed the light emanated from a tube, and her unlikely companion held the tube in her hand. Beatrice saw it was a _her_ when she placed the light source down on the brick, with the light shining upwards to the sky and casting a glimmer on the both of them. The girl was about her age, with short black hair and deep brown skin. She wore thick, dark-colored trousers, and a coat that stopped at her hips, with intricately-designed patches on the arms.

“You live on that side,” Beatrice thought aloud.

The girl nodded. “And you come from _that_ side?” She pointed to the trees where Beatrice came from. Beatrice nodded.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Yes,” Beatrice admitted.

The girl grinned, open-mouthed and eyes sparkling. “Oh my God,” she repeated, this time astounded and excited. “I can’t believe this. I never knew— _no_ one knew that...this is incredible.” She reached over to Beatrice. “What’s it like over here? Your side, I mean.”

Beatrice bit her lip. “Um, it’s…” She wondered if she should share the details about her side of the wall. Considering the reaction Wirt gave off whenever he _saw_ the oddities ( _Wirt, that jerk_ ), Beatrice could not even imagine what this girl would think just from hearing about them. “It’s different. A lot to explain.”

The girl swung one of her legs over the opposite side of the wall and faced Beatrice. “I have lots of time.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Beatrice retorted, but regretted it once the words left her mouth. “I’m sorry, but I’m looking for someone. I think he crossed over this wall recently—”

“I’ve been here for…” the girl brought her wrist up to her face, “forty minutes now, and no one’s crossed this wall. I would’ve seen them.”

“No one?”

“Except you, but you haven’t really crossed.”

It eased her mind enough to think more clearly. Wirt and Greg could have crossed before this girl arrived, but now, Beatrice doubted her fury-laden guess. If so, then Wirt and Greg were still on her side of the wall, lost and wandering. She considered descending to her side once again and running back into the trees and resume her search for the brothers, but she stopped herself for many reasons. Exhaustion, hopelessness, doubting her doubt—too many to count and explain to herself. She huffed and closed her eyes for a few seconds.

“Are you okay?” the girl asked.

“No,” Beatrice said, but not to sound rude. “I...I just need a moment to collect myself.” She turned to look over to the side that was not hers, only for her curiosity’s sake. She saw headstones. “Is that a cemetery?”

The girl nodded.

They sat in silence. Beatrice, fatigued, aching, and petrified; the girl, curious, inquisitive, and bundled up.

“I’m Sara,” the girl piped up.

“Sara?” Beatrice repeated. _Sara’s a common name_ , she told herself. _Isn’t one of my second cousins how many times removed named Sara?_ “I’m Beatrice.”

“Nice to meet you, Beatrice.” Sara stuck out her hand, covered with a glove. Beatrice shook it. “Do you want to wear my jacket for a little bit?”

“Don’t you need it?”

“I have three layers underneath this thing,” Sara said as she unfastened her outerwear with a metallic object that made a _ziiiiiiiip_ sound. “And I generate a lot of heat. Like, sometimes I keep a fan on in my bedroom during the winters. I’ll be fine without it for a while.” She passed the coat over to Beatrice, who accepted it graciously. It was not as warm as she expected it to be, but it blocked the wind and gave Beatrice the semblance of coverage. Sara reached over to pull the metal fastener upwards.

“Thank you.”

“No sweat.” Sara giggled. “Sorry, pun unintended.”

Beatrice was too weak and cold to even chuckle, but she smiled. She closed her eyes again. Too many emotions warred with themselves in her mind, but she stayed still at the top of the Garden Wall. Sara’s jacket had pockets. She placed her hands in them so she could regain feeling in her fingers. A cup of hot cocoa or hot cider would be nice now, warming her hands, her insides, her spirit.

“Do you know about…”

Beatrice did not open her eyes, but she responded. “Know about what?”

“About _my_ side? Like, do people from where you come from _know_ about us? We don’t know about you.”

“ _I_ know about your side,” Beatrice replied, eyes still closed. “I think a few others know, too. But otherwise, not really. The wall is feared. No one likes to go near it.”

“That’s kind of like here. For the adults, I think. Teenagers like me always make up stupid stories about what’s on the other side—your side.”

Beatrice nodded. She should climb down. She should find Wirt and Greg.

“What’s different about your side?” Sara pried again. “I’ve always wanted to know. Always. I think one of my friends crossed over, but he—” she stopped. Beatrice opened her eyes and studied Sara in the shine of the automatic light. She furled her brow as she stared out to the meadow and the trees. “Please, I just want to know. I’d like to see for myself, but, I don’t know...something kinda holds me back, you know?”

Beatrice refrained from sighing and explained several key differences. She spared the talk of magic—cursed bluebirds, witches, flesh-eating spirits, talking horses, the Beast—and opted to talk about the more mundane aspects of life, based on her knowledge of her life and how it contrasted from Wirt’s various stories.

“We don’t have these,” she pointed to the light tube.

“Flashlights? You don’t have electricity?”

Beatrice shook her head.

“Wow. This would make a good sci-fi movie. A place surrounded by modern technology but has none of its own. Oh, uh, do you know what a movie is?”

“Yes. I know.”

Sara smiled. “Cool.”

They talked more, with Beatrice losing track of the time and where Wirt and Greg could be, whether she should be furious with Wirt or adamant in finding him and his brother. She liked speaking with Sara, who _was_ nice. _No wonder Wirt likes her._ Beatrice liked being off of her feet, taking a moment to rest and reenergize herself. Sara was an avid listener, mesmerized in the same manner Beatrice had been with Wirt, even if she was not as lyrical and literary as Wirt could be.

“It sounds so fascinating. Almost like a fantasy novel.”

 _You don’t even know_.

“I think yours sounds better,” Beatrice confessed. “I want to experience everything I’ve only heard in the stories told to me.”

“If you know about what lies on my side, then why haven’t you tried to visit yet?”

Beatrice twisted the red hat in her hands. “It’s a long story,” she sighed.

Silence fell around them once more. The meadow was a little whiter with its dusting of snow, but Beatrice anticipated it would melt away with the morning sun. If there would be a morning sun.. Enervation pulled at her eyelids, begging her to fall asleep on the wall and worry about everything else with the morning.

“Hey, I’ve seen that hat before.”

Beatrice looked up at Sara, who pointed to the red cone hat. At a loss for words, Beatrice only stared at Sara in hopes she would have more words to say. Sara kept her eyes on the hat as if she were trying to figure it out, examining it as a fine piece of art on display.

Sara dragged her gaze from the hat to Beatrice. “Have you seen—”

 _Wirt? No. Not recently. Greg, neither. They left me. Unintentionally. Or intentionally. I don’t know. But I haven’t seen either of them since Wirt shut me out because I was trying to open up and talk to him about serious stuff, and now they’re missing and I’m too tired to find them and they’re not fine, they’re not okay, I don’t know if I’ll ever find them_ —

“ _Beatrice!_ ”

It was not Sara, who sat next to her. The voice was male, distant, and hollering. Beatrice bolted her head up, her attention on the white meadow and the snow, which reminded her of her mother sifting flour for baked goods, and the small figure barreling towards the wall with a bulky, rounded object in its hands.

Whatever that was broken inside Beatrice, it repaired itself once she heard Wirt cry out her name.

* * *

He should have told Beatrice.

He added that to the list of other things he should have done when it came to Beatrice. He should have woken her up the moment he saw Greg was missing, and then they could search for him together. Except he was trying his hardest to convince himself that Greg was okay, that Greg was not too far, and that he would find him soon enough, and then waking Beatrice would be useless.

And now, he could not turn back and go to her because he was lost.

Like that first night when he and Greg walked through the woods in a blur, no direction, no certainty, no concept of time and space, Wirt found himself amongst trees and totally, hopelessly, utterly _lost_. No bluebird to guide him. No brother to remain optimistic.

“Greg! _Greg!_ ”

Cold, cold, and cold. Nothing but cold, and trees, and snow—not enough to deter him, but enough to shake him. He passed an Edelwood, its gnarled bark and branches ugly and ominous, the image of a face screeching out in terror. A sticky black substance oozed from the ridges of the bark. Wirt shuddered at the sight and the memory of Beatrice in the dark wardrobe telling him about Edelwoods and the Beast.

“ _Greg!_ ” he screamed for the millionth time. Or billionth. He stopped counting at around twenty-two.

Greg was gone, but he refused to believe Greg was _gone_.

Wirt tripped over the root of a tree—not an Edelwood, he sighed in relief—and his knees crashed to the icy ground as the tea kettle and frog projected out of his hands and landed onto the earth several inches in front of him. Face forward, Wirt kept still. His knees burned from the impact, and the heels of his hands stung. With a groan, he rolled onto his back and moaned up to the clouded sky.

He could stay like this forever. Outstretched on the terrain, wallowing in his poor decisions and poor behavior. Wirt hated himself. All of this was his fault. He could try to blame Greg for bringing them to the outskirts of the town and inventorying his candy in the cemetery, but it was Wirt who climbed the wall and led them far away. It was Wirt who neglected to look after his brother properly, berated him for _existing_. Beatrice was right. He was nasty to his brother. And now Greg was _gone_. His eyes grew stuffy and bleary, wet with salted tears already dripping out of the outer corners and down his temples.

He wished Beatrice was with him ( _A young woman’s voice appealing to me/for comfort,/A young man’s voice, Shall I not escape?_ ). But he was dumb, and now he was alone. No Beatrice. No Greg. Nothing except cold air, trees, and snow.

Yes, he could stay like this forever.

“Hey there!”

Wirt shot up. It was a girl’s voice. “Beatrice?” Maybe she woke up and followed him. “Beatrice, is that you?” A shadow emerged from the trees, and it was a girl, but she was too short to be Beatrice, and several years too young. Maybe eleven, or twelve. “You’re not Beatrice,” he muttered, dejected.

The girl approached him anyways. “You can see me?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Am I not supposed to?”

“You didn’t before.”

Wirt raised an eyebrow at her. “What’re you talking about?”

“You heard me, earlier today. You couldn’t see me, but you could hear me.”

He scowled at the girl. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“You thought you were going crazy because it wasn’t the little boy or the bluebird, but you weren’t crazy. It was me! And now you _can_ see me. Oh, I thought I lost you when you got on that carriage, but I found you again, and—”

Wirt held up a hand. “Slow down. I don’t know you.”

The girl walked to Greg’s tea kettle and picked it up. She petted the frog inside. “I don’t know _you_ either, but I think we can help each other. My name is Ellery.”

“Wirt.” He stood up; she handed the tea kettle to him.

“I saw you sometime before you went to the markets. I was following you all day, hoping you’d see me because you could _hear_ me, and no one has heard me before.”

“Okay.” He decided to ask questions later.

“It’s been like this for so long now. One day my father was gone, and no one would speak to me when I tried to talk to them. I found out no one could hear or see me. Not even my father—I crossed paths with him once and he went right by me.”

Wirt fiddled his thumbs against the body of the tea kettle. The frog croaked.

“You’re the first person to hear me, and now you can see me, and I need your help.”

“I can’t help you,” Wirt spat. “I can’t even help my own brother.”

Ellery stepped forwards. “That’s the little boy who was with you? You can’t find him?”

Wirt nodded.

“And what about that talking bluebird?”

“I left her,” Wirt said as flatly as he could. “To look for Greg. It was stupid of me, but she’s far away.” He struggled through the heaviness in the back of his throat. “I can’t help you. I just want to find my brother—”

“I said we can help _each other_ ,” Ellery offered. “I know where my father is. Well, not his actual location, but I know who he would be with. And I think where my father is, your brother won’t be too far away.”

Wirt’s stomach knotted. He gulped. He could guess how Ellery would answer his upcoming question, but he needed to ask it, just in case he was wrong. He could accept being wrong when it came to this.

“Who would they be with?”

“The Beast.”

Wirt released his breath (he only realized he was holding it once it parted from him) and tightened his grip on the tea kettle’s handle. “Okay,” he squeaked. “Do you know where the Beast would be?”

Ellery shook her head. “It’s a wandering soul, or spirit. But it might be close by.”

“How do you know that?”

“It took your brother from _you_. Even if you’re running about, it couldn’t have gone too far. We know we’re close if we can hear its singing.”

The echoes of distant singing rung in his memory, the singing from when he woke up not too long ago (hours? It felt like hours. If the sun poked through the trees in the next few minutes or so, he would be unsurprised). “Okay. You can join me.” Ellery was no Beatrice, but she possessed a few advantages. She could provide some company.

Ellery teared in the same direction Wirt had chosen from earlier. Much like him, she was not talkative, saving her breath for when she called out directions to Wirt. She weaved through the trees at a pace with which he struggled to keep up, but Wirt was not going to tell her to slow down for his sake. His thighs ached, and his woolen cape was useless now, but he followed Ellery without complaint. Time passed (maybe another hour), and he wondered if following Ellery was such a good idea. She was younger than him, but she could be a ploy of another witch’s. Or the Beast’s. His determination to find Greg, however, eclipsed his doubts.

“This way.” Ellery pointed some time later to a path off to the right.

But Wirt caught sight of something up ahead about a quarter of a mile. It looked as if the trees stopped. He paused to stare at it some more. His legs stepped towards it.

“Where’re you going?” Ellery called. She was already at the opening of the path she indicated.

“ _Trlalala, trlalala, chop the wood to light the fire_.”

“Wirt, that’s the Beast! He’s _this_ way.”

Wirt ignored her and jogged ahead, too many guesses and curiosities stirring in his brain.

“Hey! You’re going in the opposite direction—”

Ellery’s calls drowned out as Wirt hastened to the trees. Snowflakes patted at his face.

And then he saw it.

And, if he squinted, he saw two objects with limbs.

 _Is it_ —

His feet did his thinking for him. The snow, freshly fallen and soft, crunched with each step, and he tripped over once or twice, only to find his footing again.

Even with the nighttime surrounding him and obscuring his view, he saw blue, and red, illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight.

He was maybe a quarter of the way into the meadow when her name erupted from his throat and mouth, not caring if it was not her at the top of the Garden Wall.

“ _Beatrice!_ ”

He was maybe another five or six strides closer when he heard her call his name back.

_(I hark for the bird, and all the hushed hills harken)_

* * *

The last time Sara saw Wirt in person, it was at the post-Halloween game party, the day before Halloween. He wore a gnome costume, with a pointy red hat and a blue cape with buttons. She was a little buzzed at the time, from the combined efforts of a vodka shot once she stepped into Hannah Colton’s party house, and the few cups of cranberry-vodkas she made while she spoke to Wirt, but she remembered a few bits and pieces of their conversation. The clearest memories were of her talking about the Garden Wall.

She expected to see him in their shared English class on Monday. She did see him again, but not then. It was the Monday evening local news, with an awkward school photograph on the screen as an anchor announced, “Local authorities are looking into the mysterious disappearance of two half-brothers, the fifteen-year-old Wirt Forman and the seven-year-old Greg Schmidt. They were last seen trick-or-treating on Halloween evening this past Saturday.”

Tensions remained taut in the days following, the white elephant of Wirt’s absence hung over every classroom, staircase, and hallway of the high school. Probably the elementary school as well, with Greg’s nonattendance. No one talked about it officially, save for Principal Morrison, who gave an announcement over the intercom about the unfortunate circumstance, and that if anyone had any information to provide, they were to share it with the police or Wirt’s parents.

Sara had no information, but she had a suspicion. Sadly, suspicions lacking in evidence were not enough to help a formal police investigation. Even if her intentions were in the right place, suspicions also came from weirdos and perverts trying to rattle those who suffered, and Sara decided to keep her suspicions to herself. She did, however, go to the Forman-Schmidt household with a plate of homemade cookies and gave her sincerest condolences to Wirt and Greg’s parents. Wirt’s mother, sleep-deprived and tear-stained, thanked her; Sara listened to her talk about how she got the call from their neighbor while she was out of town taking care of her own sick mother—how Wirt and Greg never returned from their trick-or-treating on Halloween—and she rushed back as quickly as she could. Sara awkwardly sat as Mrs. Schmidt wept. Unable to say where she suspected Wirt and Greg were, it was the least she could do.

She avoided the Eternal Garden Cemetery and the Garden Wall in those days and attempted to focus on her schoolwork as the initial shock whittled down amongst the townsfolk. But that night, curiosity won out, and she snuck out of the house to sit at the top of the wall and contemplate whether or not her inklings were correct. She lost track of the time, caught up in her mind and the drifting snow, too early in the year but exquisite to watch regardless, when she saw the figure attempt to climb the wall on the side. Sara almost forgot about Wirt and Greg as she spoke to the girl, Beatrice, until she noticed the red object in Beatrice’s hands, and heard Beatrice’s name yelled out.

“Wirt?!” Sara called out, but Beatrice had joined her as well. Without a beat, Beatrice scrambled down the wall, still wearing Sara’s jacket, as a wild and disheveled Wirt sprinted with his spindly legs to the wall. He dropped a metal thing—a tea kettle, as Sara saw when she shined her flashlight on it—and held his arms up for Beatrice. From the way they reached out to each other—urgent, pleading, desirous, _delirious_ —Sara was certain they would kiss. A reunion kiss, like the soldiers and sailors who returned from overseas and met their loved ones again. They never did, but they might as well have; they embraced and touched one another’s faces, their voices a mix of frenzy and relief as they said things like:

“I thought you left me—”

“I wouldn’t. I mean, I did, but not like that—”

“I thought you were mad at me for what I said and left for the wall with Greg—”

“No, never—”

“Then why’d you leave, you loser?”

“Because I can’t find Greg.”

Only half-understanding the scene unfolding before her, Sara’s heart twisted at the mention of Greg. From the silence that followed after Wirt spoke, she understood it affected Beatrice as well.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Greg, he’s gone. I woke up and he wasn’t next to me. I think—” Wirt paused. “I think the Beast has him.”

More quiet.

“ _Fuck._ ”

“I should’ve woken you up, I know that—it’s just another one of the things I should’ve done, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I tried not to. I thought he woke up and took a small walk, but Ellery—”

“Who is Ellery?”

“I’ll explain later, but we have to go—”

“Wirt, _wait_ ,” Sara called from the top of the Garden Wall, before he could turn around and take Beatrice with him. She shined her flashlight at the sight below her.

Wirt, for the first time since he arrived at the wall, looked up. “Sara? What’re you doing here?”

“I could say the same for you! Turns out you climbed the wall.”

He nodded, ever so slowly. “Yeah. I did.”

It was not the time and place to tell him, and she felt guilty for even thinking it during such an agitated and tumultuous moment, but Sara admired and envied Wirt for doing something she never had the courage to do herself.

“You’ve been gone for nearly two weeks now, Wirt. You and Greg. Your parents are worried. The police are looking into your disappearance.”

“Oh _shit,_ ” Wirt muttered, pulling at his hair. It was the first time Sara ever heard Wirt curse, and it would not surprise her if it was the first time he swore out loud _ever_. He dropped his hands and glared up at her. “Sara, don’t tell them you saw me over here. But tell them I’m okay.”

“How am I supposed to know that? They’ll want to know—”

“Say I called you. Don’t be specific, but tell them I’m okay, and I’m on my way back.”

Sara could think of all the reasons that was a terrible plan; it was too hasty, too ridden with holes and susceptible to a thorough investigation. “Okay,” she conceded, “but what about Greg? What do I say about him?”

“Nothing. Don’t say a word about Greg. Just mention me.”

Sara had more questions to ask Wirt, like why he crossed the Garden Wall, why he stayed there for two weeks, how he met and knew Beatrice, what was this “beast” he mentioned, where was Greg (but she guessed what his answer would be— _I don’t know_ ), and when (not _if_ ) he would be back. Instead, she nodded at him and clicked her flashlight off. “Okay, Wirt. I’ll go.” She stood up, about to descend down the tree.

“Wait!” It was Beatrice’s voice. “Don’t you want your coat back?”

“Keep it. You need it more than I do.”

“Thank you.”

“Sara?” Wirt, again.

“Yes?”

“What time is it?”

Sara flicked her flashlight on again to glance at her wristwatch. “Eleven-twenty-two.” Way past her curfew, but she pushed aside the thought of her parents lecturing her once she returned home (if they knew she was not in her room studying for her Chemistry test, which at this point, they likely did). “See you later,” she said with a wave. Before she found her footing on the tree, she saw the figures of Beatrice and Wirt as they dashed to the dark mass of trees.

With her feet on the ground of the Eternal Garden Cemetery, Sara did her own dashing to the Forman-Schmidt home.

* * *

“This is Beatrice.”

“Who are you talking to?” Beatrice probed once she and Wirt returned to the trees, the meadow and the Garden Wall to their backs.

“Ellery,” Wirt answered. “You can’t see or hear her. I can. I don’t know why.”

“How convenient.” Even in the dire circumstances, Beatrice could not hide her sarcasm.

“She has an idea of where Greg could be.”

Beatrice did not need an invisible girl telling her, via Wirt, where Greg was. She knew from the second Wirt told her that Greg was not with him, and every cell in her body dripped with horror. This was what she wanted to avoid, and yet here they were, following a stranger through the forest. But Beatrice stomached those terrors and reminded herself she was reunited with Wirt. Together (and Ellery, whoever she was), they could try to find Greg. And if they found Greg ( _when_ , she corrected, _when_ they found Greg), Beatrice would slap Wirt for not waking her up when he first noticed Greg’s disappearance. Now was not the time to dwell on such matters because the only matter at hand was Greg. Poor sweet Greg, sick and alone, at the unwilling beckoning of—

Wirt’s hand grabbed hers, pulling her through the throng of trees. She scurried behind him until she could run next to his side without him holding her hand. Wirt said nothing, presumably following this invisible Ellery. Farther and farther they went, the scene moving but still the same no matter how many strides they took. Her entire being warred with itself. Her body, weak and longing to stop and rest but dogged to stay upright and running alongside Wirt. Her mind, caught between a tug-of-war of wondering if Greg was okay ( _He’s okay, he’s fine, we just have to find him_ ), wondering if _Wirt_ was okay, and wondering if their unseen guide knew her way through the woods. Her spirit, still suspended in euphoria to know Wirt never crossed the wall to return to his side without bringing her along, but cracked with knowing Greg was out in the forest, _alone_ , surrounded by evil.

“ _Trlalala, trlalala, cut the wood to light the fire._ ”

“It must be the Beast out there, the obsidian cricket of our inevitable twilight, singing our requiem,” Wirt recited as he slowed to a walk. Beatrice did not have the heart to tell him how inappropriate it was of him to think of poetry while they searched for his brother. She preferred to think of it as his coping mechanism, his means of remaining calm at a time when he only wanted to stop and scream.

Which he did, several minutes later.

“Leave me alone,” he snapped to the nothingness over his shoulder. At first, Beatrice thought he meant her as well. He probably did.  He laid on the ground and wrapped himself in a fetal position. He cuddled the frog-occupied tea kettle.

“ _Wirt_ , listen here,” Beatrice flared. She crouched next to him, her hand on his arm. “We can’t stop. Not now. He’s out there—”

“It’s my fault,” he moaned.

“No it’s not,” she barked. “None of this is your fault.”

“Yes it is.” He pulled the collar of his cloak up to the top of his head so he could hide. “It’s my fault we’re here. It’s my fault he’s gone.”

“ _Stop this_. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. It’s getting us nowhere.”

“It’s my fault—”

“ _Shut up Wirt_. Shut up and get up. Greg needs you now. You made a promise to be nicer to him. This is part of that promise.”

Wirt sniffed from underneath his cape. His eyes peeked from over the collar. They were red, and wet around the corners. Beatrice’s heart sank. She hated to see him like this. But he was the only one who could fix it. “I made my own promise to deliver the both of you to the wall, but I can’t do that if you won’t do anything. _Get up_.” With both of her hands, Beatrice pulled one of his away from his cloak and rubbed circles into his palm. “ _Please_ , Wirt.”

Beatrice steadied her eyes on Wirt, agitated in anticipation. “He’s okay. He’s fine. We just need to find him.”

Wirt sat up, his legs crossed in front of him. “You don’t know that.”

“No I don’t. But we’ve got to see for ourselves.” She stood up and stretched her hand out to him.

Wirt took it. Once he stood on his feet, she placed his cone hat on his head and picked up the tea kettle at the handle. “Ellery, lead the way,” she said to the emptiness around them.

Wirt ran in one direction, and Beatrice followed him.

* * *

The shadow with the eyes led him to some place. Greg coughed, almost like he was puking, but no puke was coming out, just air. “Fear not, Gregory. I will rid you of that nasty cold, and you will be good as new.”

“To do anything I want?”

“Of sorts.”

“You can do anything if you set your mind to it,” Greg said.

“Sit here, Gregory,” the shadow commanded, but it sounded so nice and helpful, like the school nurse who gave out small bottles of water and lollipops to all of her visitors. Greg dropped to the ground and closed his eyes. Something tickled at his ankle, but he shrugged it off.

Something else—wooden and cold—held his cheeks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And up above, you can see the plot rolling in several chapters too late.
> 
> Poetry credit: "Despairing Cries" by Walt Whitman, and "A Lyric of the Dawn" by Edwin Markham (which is a very OTGW-poem, by the way. I've wanted to use it in this fic for a while now). Also the Beast's chant (catchphrase?) is obviously from OTGW.


	17. Greg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So of all the chapters in this story, I looked forward to writing this one the least. That's not to say I didn't put effort into it, but it was a challenge. Thank you to Pixiestick_cc for her kind words and encouragement; she's a wonderful beta :)
> 
> Warning: minor mentions of blood and death, and lots of exposition at the end

For the fifth, sixth, or seventh time that night, Wirt considered tumbling to the ground and wallowing away. His throat burned from all the times he shouted _Greg_ into the darkness, with Ellery, Beatrice, and the trees the only ones who heard him. His feet ached. His lips, dry and cracked, stung every moment he smacked them together. His eyes sagged. With every step, Wirt huffed. The snow looked so soft and peaceful. In the moments he slowed down to gather himself, he gazed at an empty space next to a tree and imagined it to be a mattress with blankets beckoning him to lie down and rest.

But every time, he reminded himself of Greg out in the woods, and Beatrice’s words, and every time he charged forwards, his cape billowing behind him. _Greg would think I’m a superhero._

Ellery glided in front of him and Beatrice, turning corners from every occasion they heard the singing. “We’re getting closer. This way.” Fortitude surpassed any exhaustion or fret in her voice. For eleven or twelve years old, she displayed a fearlessness Wirt only read about in books.

Beatrice ran alongside him, her hair falling out of the ribbon that tied her tresses back. The loose red locks flagged behind her, the wind blowing them in various directions. She wore Sara’s jacket, and she clutched Greg’s tea kettle to her chest, almost hovering over it for protection. From her earlier pep talk (a berating tone, but helpful words and intentions), Wirt could tell she was just as weary as he was. Her voice rasped, and she _pleaded._ He had been too busy crying himself to notice if she was crying as well, but even if she was weak and terrified herself, she remained unfaltering as she spoke to him. Now, Beatrice pressed her lips together in a line and wrinkled her brow as she scampered. Wirt had difficulty keeping up with her strides, but their mutual encumbrance slowed the both of them down. The snow stopped, but the wind only heightened.

Greg, Greg, _Greg._ Little seven-year-old Greg, his brother. Wirt tried to replay the last seven years, going on eight, with Greg in his life. He remembered when his mother first announced he would have a little brother or sister, and how, on one hot June day, their next-door neighbor babysat him when his mother and John rushed to the hospital. There had been a telephone call right as Wirt was brushing his teeth and prepping himself to go to bed.

_“Wirt, your mother gave birth to your baby brother. Do you want me to drive you to the hospital so you can see him? I’m sure your parents would make an exception about your bedtime for such a special occasion.”_

_“No. Good night.”_

Wirt remembered seeing Greg for the first time, too—the next day, when John picked him up at the elementary school and drove him to the hospital. Greg was a chubby baby, with his chubby cheeks, chubby arms, and chubby legs. Wirt stared from his spot at the side of the hospital bed while his mother and John cooed over the little alien, with its wrinkly face, dewy eyes, and rolls of baby fat. _“This is your baby brother, Wirt. His name is Gregory. Gregory Christopher Schmidt.”_ Wirt had scrunched his nose at the baby. Their mother had returned from the hospital a week or so later, and unfortunately, she had brought Greg with her.

Wirt could not remember every passing remark he made to Greg as the years passed. There were too many, all jumbled with the groans, the eye rolls, the under-the-breath mutters, the disdain he felt whenever he was regulated to baby-playing—and, once his mother deemed him old enough at thirteen, babysitting—duty. Walking Greg to school in the mornings. Having to share a bathroom with Greg. Helping Greg with his homework. Making sure Greg ate his greens. Taking Greg trick-or-treating—

Beatrice said it was not his fault, but it _was_.

And, truth be told, not _all_ his memories of Greg were so terrible. There was the memory of Wirt’s twelfth birthday. It unfortunately coincided with the day his grandmother was diagnosed with stage one colon cancer, and the plans for a celebration plummeted as their mother left immediately; John stayed behind, ordering a pizza and purchasing a store-bought lemon cake so Wirt would not feel too slighted. Wirt understood the situation. He was fourteen.

_“Happy birthday Wirt!”_

_“Thanks.”_

_“I made you something!”_

It was a handmade birthday card that read, in large, unsteady writing, “HAPY BDAY WRIT,” each letter a different color of crayon and a backwards ‘R.’ There was a scraggly drawing of a birthday cake and a birthday hat, and multicolored polka dots arrayed the folded piece of paper. On the back, Greg drew what looked like a turtle.

_“I saw a turtle in the yard and I wanted to give that to you too but Dad said no.”_

_“This…this is fine, Greg. Thank you.”_

Asides from the pizza and cake, it was the only present Wirt received that day (his mother handed gave him one once she returned, but it no longer felt like a birthday present). They stayed up watching a corny science fiction movie and eating pizza and adding dollops of vanilla ice cream to the lemon cake; Greg fell asleep before the movie finished. Wirt still had the birthday card tucked away in one of the drawers of his desk. Greg still made them; the card Wirt received for his fifteenth birthday featured a clarinet and some music notes, and his name was spelled correctly.

“You’re falling behind,” Beatrice called to him. She ran ahead of him several inches. He picked up the pace and fell back to her side.

Wirt wondered if Beatrice ever went insane from taking care of her siblings. He could barely handle being the oldest of two; how could she handle being the oldest of _eight_? _And_ , she was sixteen. He assumed she had moments of frustration— _eight times worth_ of frustration. But what were her good memories of her siblings like? What was it like to be away from them for months? Greg was gone for a few hours, and Wirt was nothing more than a sack of dread and jumping nerves. Even if Beatrice chose to leave her family, she must have felt similarly. Especially in all the time she never knew of the scissors, searching for a way to help them, but coming up dry every time.

At least Ellery knew her father was alive.

For all Wirt knew, Greg could be dead.

He trembled at the thought. He trembled some more at the thought that he could so easily accept Greg’s death as a valid possibility.

But it  _was_ a valid possibility.

Wirt collided into Ellery’s back, causing the both of them to stumble, but Beatrice caught Wirt’s arm before he splatted onto the ground. “Listen!” Ellery gasped once she stood upright again. Still holding onto Beatrice, Wirt held his breath and listened to the noises of the night. Somewhere above, and not too far away, he heard singing. The melody and lyrics oozed with gloom.

_Come wayward souls_  
_who wander through the darkness._  
_There is a light for the lost and the meek._  
_Sorrow and fear_  
_are easily forgotten  
_ _when you submit to the soil of the Earth._

“We have to keep going forward,” Beatrice said before Ellery could. “It sounds close by.”

Wirt wanted to run ahead and call out Greg’s name, but his legs would not move. He stood, scared stiff of what lied ahead, as Ellery and Beatrice both looked at him. He heard a muffled _thunk_ of metal against snow, and he felt both of Beatrice’s hands—just as cold as his felt—hold both of his. “Wirt, come on. We can do this. You can do this.” The words came out slowly, almost in a drawl. Though her voice was hoarse and croaky, she intended to soothe. She released her grip from one of his hands, and placed her free hand at the nape of his neck, fingers weaved with his hair. He looked up at her. Blue eyes, almost silvery in the night, and tired. “Greg is up there, Wirt. We just have to go to him.”

_Greg._ Greg was the only person who mattered now.

He nodded.

Beatrice kneeled down to pick up the tea kettle, and they resumed their running. One foot after the other, each step a warning that they must stop. But they continued anyways.

* * *

“Look, Woodsman.”

He propped the axe up against a tree and held the lantern out so it could cast its light on the darkened sight. With a sharp gasp, the lantern dropped to the snow-blanketed ground. It was the little boy. The trunk of a tree enveloped his left side, with vines at his open feet and right wrist. Though he slept, he looked disturbed.

“Another Edelwood for the forest. Another Edelwood for you to light the lantern.”

The Woodsman shook his head. “How can you do this?”

“I have to. You’ve been well aware of how the lantern’s oil is retrieved. Why must you worry over morals now? What is it about this boy and his brother that concerns you?”

“You don’t understand!” he shouted at the white eyes. “I’ve tried so hard all this time to ignore this, ignore all of it, but I can’t anymore.”

The eyes colorized into rings. “What are you implying, Woodsman?”

* * *

The singing loudened. Then it stopped, and gave way to spoken words. Two voices, both deep, but different from each other. They conversed.

_You cannot leave me. We have a deal._

_Why did you drag me into this?_

It was Ellery’s turn to cry out. “Father? _Father!_ ”

_You dragged yourself into it, Woodsman. I offered you the deal, and you made the decision to choose it._

_I can’t do it anymore. One cannot trade the lives of children as if they are tokens!_

_Tsk tsk, Woodsman_. _’Tis a shame you think this way. You shouldn’t have gotten so attached to these two boys. You know it was for your sake I spared one of them?_

_You didn’t spare him. You’ve only upset him. He’s searching for his brother._

_And what can he do?_

_He’s like me, how I_ used _to be. I know it._

_Like you? No one is like you, Woodsman._

_You’re lying. It’s why you spared him. You would never give up the chance to make two Edelwoods if you could. You can sense it—that oldest boy is like me._

_And what if he is? The more time he spends in these woods, the more time he’ll become even more like you. Weak and susceptible to the boundaries placed upon us. It’s why you haven’t done anything to me, Woodsman. Take this Edelwood for what it is worth, Woodsman. More fuel for your daughter’s spirit—_

_No!_

“Father!” Ellery hollered, and she stopped running. Wirt and Beatrice halted at her sides to look upon the scene before them. From the light of a lantern on the ground, Wirt could make out a few details. A man—the Woodsman from the tavern. A shadow with eyes—the silhouette of antlers on the sides of the head. In between them, half-tree stump, half-boy.

“Greg!” Wirt screamed as loud as his lungs and his sore throat allowed. He raced to his younger brother and embraced the stump, uncaring for the two beings flanking his sides. Unthinking, he reached for the lantern on the ground and kept it close to his legs.

“Pff…W-W-Wirf…?”

“Oh, Greg, this is all my fault, I’m so sorry…”

“Look what we have here.”

A shiver danced on Wirt’s shoulder blades. He glanced to the left, the white eyes downturned to him and his brother.  

The Beast.

“Turn away, boy! Your brother is as good as gone! Run as fast as you can and never look back!”

The Woodsman.

“Father!” Ellery shouted from behind Wirt. Her feet padded into the snow, but the Woodsman remained unresponsive, his eyes fixated upon Wirt and Greg.

Only the Beast acknowledged her presence. “How did you…never mind that.” The eyes brightened once the head turned back to Wirt. “I’m afraid it’s too late, boy. Your brother belongs to the forest now. He belongs to me.”

Wirt felt hands on his shoulders. Beatrice crouched behind him; some of her hair fanned over her hand, his shoulder, and the front of his cape. For a moment, Wirt assumed she was using him as a shield from the Beast. It dawned on him half a second later that Beatrice was not hiding from the Beast. She was _protecting him_ from the Beast.

“Please let me have my brother—”

“Don’t bargain with it!” cried the Woodsman.

“ _Silence!_ ” The Beast thrusted out its black hand; with it, the Woodsman was slammed against a tree. The man let out a moan once his head impacted the trunk, and he shriveled to the ground.

“Father!” Ellery screamed again as she ran to the Woodsman’s side, a sob working its way up into her voice. Wirt watched as the young girl pushed aside her father’s hair and embraced him; he overheard her weeps.

A groveling noise emanated from the other side. Wirt turned to look at the Beast once more. Its eyes now shone with colors. “Now, where were we?”

“Let Greg go—”

“Be quiet, bluebird, unless you want to end up like the Woodsman,” the Beast barked. Beatrice’s fuming hot exhale brushed against Wirt’s neck.

Wirt gathered himself to his feet, positioning himself in front of Greg’s stump. “Please, I just want him back. I beseech of you, have mercy upon us.”

“You think this is something I want to do,” the Beast crooned, a swish of black following it as the figure circled the three of them. “But it is something I _must_ do. Without me, there is no oil. And without the oil of the Edelwoods, then these woods will suffer. Your brother is helping this realm. Think of it like that.”

Behind him, Ellery’s sobs echoed. “It’s okay, Father, I’m right here.”

Wirt’s breaths heaved as his heart-rate pounded. To steady himself, he bit into his chapped lower lip, eliciting the metallic tang of blood into his mouth. He recalled Beatrice’s explanation in the armoire, and the song in the tavern. Oil, Edelwood, children. The oil…and the lantern mentioned in the tavern…

Without moving his eyes from the Beast, Wirt picked up the lantern at his feet.

“That’s a lie,” Beatrice griped. Wirt glanced over his shoulder to see she was standing up now. “You’re from the northern woods, where it’s desolate and not a human soul for hundreds of miles. These woods were fine before you came.”

“And how would you know, bluebird? Not even your great-grandparents remember a time before me. Now, didn’t I tell you to be quiet?”

“Wait!” Wirt raised his hand, the one that grasped the lantern. The Beast stood less than three feet away from him, Its eyes white and luminous. “There must be something I can do to help Greg.”

Beatrice leaned over. “You can’t be serious, Wirt—”

“You?” The Beast stepped forwards and loomed over Wirt. “Yes, perhaps there is something _you_ can do.”

Wirt’s legs shook, and as he stepped backwards, his calves pressed against the bark of Greg’s stump. One of Beatrice’s unsteady hands settled on his shoulder to steady him.

“Consider this,” the Beast sneered. “I cannot do much about your brother any more. He is lost. But, I can keep him alive.”

“And how do you intend to do that?”

“Put his soul into that lantern, of course.” The Beast must have noticed how Wirt dropped his eyes to the lantern in his hands. “Oh yes, I am in need of a new caretaker. That fool over there won’t be of any use to me in a few years’ time. I need someone young and resilient, someone like you. I can put your brother’s soul into that lantern, much like his daughter’s, and you can keep the flame alive with the oil.”

Wirt stared at Greg once more. The vines around his ankles and wrist crept up their respective limbs. He sighed and closed his eyes.

“Wirt, _no—_ ”

He shifted towards the Beast. If it meant Greg was alive, well, then—

“Wait. That’s dumb.”

The Beast growled. “What?”

“That’s dumb.” And many other things. He pieced together every bit of information passed down to him, it all racing together to form one solid idea in his mind. He cradled the lantern in both of his hands. “Ellery’s not in this lantern. She’s over by her father.”

“You can see her?”

Wirt ignored the Beast’s question. “But… the lantern has to stay lit… doesn’t it?” He brought the lantern up to his face. The orange and yellow flame flickered at him. “It has to stay lit for _your_ sake…”

“The _woods’_ sake, boy—”

“It’s almost like _your_ soul is in this lantern…”

He opened the lantern’s small door.

An icy whirl of wind swirled around Wirt, the darkness of the night closing in on him. He only saw the glow of the lantern, and the eyes. “You foolish boy!” The Beast bellowed. “Are you ready to see true darkness?!”

Wirt gulped. To say he was terrified was a gross understatement. He quaked, his knees knocking together and his hands wobbling against the lantern. He had never stared into such evil before, but then again, until he crossed the wall, he never knew such evil existed. But he had to do this. For Greg. For Beatrice and everyone else on this side of the Garden Wall. For himself.

He cleared his throat. “Are you?”

He turned his back to the Beast’s eyes, the swish of his cape following him in a circle, and faced Beatrice. She stared at him with fear written across her face, as if she were about to ask him what he was doing. “Trust me,” he whispered and shoved the lantern closer to her. As if she read his mind, Beatrice placed her hands onto the body of the lantern and nodded, her own hands shaking. Not stopping to count to three, he blew into the lantern’s mouth.

“No!” The Beast cried out.

* * *

There was void.

Wirt stood (or floated? It _felt_ like he was standing, but there was no ground beneath him to look at). He dropped the lantern, or he _thought_ he did. He pushed the palm of his hand onto his face, but he did not see its silhouette.

“Greg?” he whimpered. Not even the wind answered him. “Beatrice?”

He walked in the direction he assumed to be his left. No light anywhere. Just black.

Groaning noises erupted from somewhere behind him. He ran towards them, “Greg? Beatrice?”

“Wirt?” The voice was too faint and garbled for him to distinguish as either Greg or Beatrice, similar to hearing it underwater.

“Greg?” Wirt moved in the direction of the voice.

“Wirt!” It was louder, but still jumbled and warped. “Where are you, Wirt?”

“I’m right here, Greg!”

“I don’t know where Greg is—”

“Beatrice?”

“I’m here, Wirt.”

“I can’t see you.”

“I can’t see anything!”

But he could hear her, and she was growing closer. Farther away, but of less concern, the gurgled voices of Ellery and the Woodsman reverberated.  

“Father?”

“Ell…Ellery…is…is that you I hear?”

“Father! Father, I’m here…I’m here!”

Wirt kept his arms extended in front of him as he speed-walked, hoping the direction he chose was the direction that would lead him to Beatrice. Or, better yet, Greg. The darkness permeated around him, not even the faintest flicker of a star above. With each step, terror washed over him. What if the Beast was right all along? What if blowing out its soul was the _wrong_ thing to do? And Greg...was he _gone_? The trickle of tears slid down Wirt’s cheeks, but lost in this state of disorientation and determination, he continued walking.

His fingers pressed onto what felt like leather.

“Wirt?”

* * *

As if waking up, the scene flooded back into his view. Even the cold air returned, nipping at the tips of his ears and the bridge of his nose. He saw Beatrice’s backside, still clad in Sara’s jacket; his fingertips rested at where her shoulder blades were. She jumped, letting out a small shriek, and spun around to face him. Not even a second after, Beatrice swung her arms around his neck and pulled him close to her. “Wirt, you’re okay—”

As nice as it was to hold Beatrice in his arms, to provide each other with warmth, Wirt pushed himself out of her grip. “Greg? Where’s Greg?” His eyes searched the surrounding area for a boy in a tree stump; they settled on the unfortunate sight some yards away.  “Greg!”

His brother coughed, spitting out a few leaves. “Wirt?”

“Check his pulse.” It was the Woodsman who spoke. Caught in a moment of alacrity and tension, Wirt did so accordingly, situating two fingers under Greg’s jaw. Little beats vibrated against his fingertips. “He should be fine if he has a pulse. The Edelwood hasn’t gotten to his heart.”

Wirt was too relieved to care, but Beatrice tasked herself with asking the question running in his mind. “Before you said it was too late for him. How is it different now?”

“The Beast. As long as it lived, the Edelwoods thrive. But he’s gone now.” A large square hand perched onto Wirt’s shoulder. He looked up to see the Woodsman. “Let me help.”

Wirt stepped away from Greg, and noticed that the Woodsman held an axe in his hands. He cut away the wooden stump, freeing Greg from his Edelwood prison. Wirt caught his brother just before Greg could roll onto the ground beneath him. In the corner of his eye, the wood glazed over into a glossy finish, not unlike petrified wood.

“Thank you.”

“It is I who should be thanking you,” the Woodsman lamented. He was the second person to say that to him; the first was Auntie Whispers the night before (to think he was speaking to Auntie Whispers over twenty-four hours ago was too surreal; it felt like a week passed from then to now). “You brought my Ellery back to me. I should have known she was not in the lantern, but the Beast knew how to manipulate—”

“The Beast hid me, Father,” Ellery piped up. She was standing next to her father, but from Wirt’s crouched position, the Woodsman blocked his view of her. “I’ve been roaming the woods all this time trying to find someone who could see me and help me. I passed you once while I roamed in the woods, and you didn’t see me. No one saw me except Wirt.”

A light fabric flurried against Wirt’s backside. He assumed it was Beatrice, but he kept his eyes on the Woodsman, who stared at him with an intensity that made him both curious and uncomfortable. Beatrice kneeled beside him. “And the Beast is gone?” she asked.

The Woodsman nodded. “You can feel it in the air.”

Wirt straightened his back and listened to the noises of nighttime. Despite the cold wind, the atmosphere was lighter, less daunting and fearsome. “Was the Beast right?” he inquired. “About the woods suffering without it?”

“That _has_ to be a lie,” Beatrice added. “The Beast wasn’t always here. It came from the northern woods, didn’t it? When I was a bluebird, I overheard people talk about the Beast and what it was.”

“The Beast liked to think the woods would die out if it was not for its presence…and for a while, I thought it was right. It certainly warped these woods for quite some time. Its presence was the reason your brother started showing symptoms of sickness, after all. But only time will tell now that it’s no longer here. And aye, it _did_ come from the northern woods. Things are so vastly different up north.” He gazed once again at Wirt. “This realm extends well past the boundaries of ours.”

Wirt glowered. “Ours?”

“You come from the town on the other side of the Garden Wall, do you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“And is the Welling Pharmacy still on the corner of Braddock and Talley?”

“Yeah, but—” Wirt paused, a sinking in his chest from the realization. “Wait…you come from my side, too?”

The Woodsman smiled. “Oh yes. I crossed over when I was just a few years older than you. And that pharmacy was my father’s.”

Wirt repositioned his arms, which were falling asleep, around Greg. “Why…why did you cross the wall?”

“I was struck with wanderlust, my boy. Back then, the town was hardly anything. I assume it’s developed since my departure, but then, it was not even a stop off of the highway. My father wanted me to take over his business, and I…well, I was bored, so very bored with my life and the possibility that I would never leave the town. Then it was one spring afternoon when I grew restless, so I climbed the wall. The trees sung to me, and I haven’t been back since. Did they sing for you?”

Wirt nodded. It took a deep recollection, but he remembered Halloween evening, vaguely, and the how the wind called out to him.

“Ah, just as I thought. And your brother?”

“I don’t know. He never mentioned it.”

“Yes, well, since my arrival, I’ve made many observations about these woods. The magic, no doubt, but other things, too. I went to the edge of the northern woods once, when I was much younger. It’s so remote that there is no wall, like there is here. You could cross between realms without even knowing it. And there’s more magic up there. Talking animals, barghests, all sorts of creatures. The Beast was one of those creatures. In my earliest travels, I heard stories of a man long ago who ventured into the northern woods and became so depraved and starved, he became one with the forest and the dark magic that resides in those parts. There’s no evidence to prove it, but I always suspected the Beast was this man.”

“And the wall?” Wirt continued on. “Why was the Garden Wall built?”

“That I don’t know. No one knows, truthfully. We’re all terrified of it, that’s for sure. In my years, I tried to find out, but there are too many stories floating about. Some think it was built by people on our side to keep the Beast away, but some others believe it was there long before the Beast ever arrived into the southern woods.”

“How did you start to work for the Beast?” It was Beatrice this time.

The Woodsman turned his attentions to Ellery, a hesitation in his eyes and face. “It’s…hard to say.”

“It’s okay, Father,” Ellery allowed.

The Woodsman remained quiet for a moment. “I found its lantern one night, nearly eighteen months ago. It was nighttime and I’d been away from the home all day, and when I returned, Ellery was gone. The Beast approached me not too longer spewing lies about her being attacked and on the verge of death—and it could put her soul in the lantern as long as I agreed to cut the Edelwood trees and fill the lantern with oil. I shouldn’t’ve believed it, but the shack was strewn apart with blood, as if a bandit had ransacked the place and…well, I gave in to its demands. I watched as it turned innocent children into Edelwood trees, though there weren’t many. It preferred using children who crossed the wall, and in the past few decades, children from our side have gotten better at _not_ doing that.”

“I thought only five people have crossed the wall. Not including Greg or me.”

The Woodsman shook his head. “I’m afraid many more crossed the wall, long before your grandparents would’ve been born. As I learned from Cyrus Holland, he was not the first at all.”

“The first?” Wirt raised a brow. “You mean, the one who wrote the letter?”

“Oh, yes, I remember that story. He was an old, old man when I met him, already with great-grandchildren. He did work at that general store in town, but he was coming of age during a tumultuous period, and society was unkind to him. He was the son of former slaves who moved up north after the Civil War, but Cyrus’s family died from a deadly illness. He suffered, too, but he was the only one who survived. He crossed the wall to escape his loneliness and the cruelty of society. The trees sang for him, too.” The Woodsman looked to the sky, where the clouds were parting, and stars glimmered in the cleared path. “He lived a good life on this side, setting up his own general store in a town called Carpenter. He sent that message by pigeon, though I never quite understood how he trained the pigeon to send it over the wall. But yes, he was not the first. He told me dozens of children crossed the wall, never to be seen again on our side, but most likely to be turned into Edelwood and fed to the Beast’s lantern. Chances are those children never heard the trees sing for them, either.”

“And have you met any others who crossed, besides me?”

“No, though I assume Cyrus met a few besides me.”

A silence fell among them all. Wirt’s arms numbed from the cold and weight of holding Greg. More questions brewed in his mind, but they all melded together, and he was unable to ask them. He just wanted to close his eyes and fall asleep, holding Greg and never letting him go, never letting him out of his sights ever again, dreaming about how he, Wirt Forman, was going to be the best older brother a boy could ask for.

“Tell me, why did you and your brother cross?”

Wirt pursed his lips. “Uh…that’s, well…I don’t know, really.” He craned his neck a little to peek at Beatrice, hoping to see one of her signature smirks; they discussed this long ago, and even then, he did not have a straight answer. Beatrice gazed at the ground before her, most likely aware of his gaze, and avoiding it. “To impress a girl, maybe,” he mumbled. Even he knew this was a lie, but it was the best answer he could think of at the moment.

The Woodsman let out a hearty chuckle. “No one crosses the Garden Wall for another person, my boy. There’s always a motive of self-interest. For Cyrus Holland, it was freedom from loneliness and society. For me, it was wanderlust and adventure. You crossed this wall for your own reasons, even if you don’t know what they are. You are quite the pilgrim, young man.”

Wirt stayed quiet, unsure of what to make of this. He yawned. When the Woodsman asked, “I suppose you will be heading back to the Garden Wall?” he nodded sluggishly.

“That would be a first; no one who crosses ever returns, but I suppose now that the Beast is gone, it could happen.” He paused. “I am afraid Ellery and I must head to our home now, for it is far from here, but we can offer you directions.”

“Let me,” Ellery chimed in, stepping into Wirt’s view; he nearly forgot she was there the entire time the Woodsman spoke. “I’ve come to know these woods so well.” She recited a few directions off the top of her head and had both Wirt and Beatrice repeat them to her until they were ingrained in their memories.  “You’re about a day’s journey away.”

“Thank you,” said Beatrice.

“It is us who should thank the two of you,” the Woodsman recounted once more. “Rest up for the remainder of this night, and take care of the little one, now. The Beast might not be here anymore and he will get better, but his recovery might take longer than you would think.”

The Woodsman and Ellery waved goodbye. Wirt and Beatrice waved back, and watched the darkness of the wee hours of the morning swallow them as they walked away. Wirt closed his eyes, but they reopened at the sound of a frog’s _ribbits_ approaching them.

“Hey look,” Beatrice whispered. She held Greg’s frog to Wirt’s face. “I dropped him with the tea kettle not too far away, but I forgot about him.”

“Useless frog,” Wirt grumbled. “Like Jason Funderburker.” He and the frog blinked at each other. “Greg, what do you think of Jason Funderburker as our frog’s name?”

Greg’s only answer was his breathing. Beatrice pushed back the little boy’s bangs. “I think he’ll like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe me if I said that this is the third-to-last full chapter? Because it is. Stay tuned!!!
> 
> No poetry credit, but "Come Wayward Souls" is very much an OTGW song (episode 8, "Babes in the Woods").


	18. Strangely Easy to Mistake for Loathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know with the dawn that you will be gone  
> but tonight, you belong to me.
> 
> \- ["Tonight You Belong to Me"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gQLLjFM_KpY) written by Pee Wee King, Chilton Price, and Redd Stewart (1952)

Beatrice rested her head against Wirt’s back, her eyes dry and lids heavy.  The snow on the ground dampened her dress and froze her legs, but she ignored the numbing sensation and wrapped her arms around Wirt’s waist. His cloak scratched against her cheek. Wirt cradled Greg in his own arms; she could feel the fabric of Greg’s clothing against her forearms. They all sat in the quiet, soaking in the darkness and the puffs of wind.  Beatrice wanted to fall asleep like this, for all of it to fade into a bittersweet nothingness until the morning. Right now, it was _so pleasant_ , knowing Greg was safe, he would recover, and the Beast would no longer roam amongst the trees. Wirt smelled of wet soil, ice, and hazelnuts. She wanted to remain in this position for as long as she could.

Instead, she jerked her head up five minutes later, and stood up altogether. “C’mon.”

“What?” Wirt mumbled.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“But it’s nighttime, and the Woodsman and Ellery said—”

“Not anywhere _far_ ,” she clarified, “just out of this spot.” Even with Wirt and Greg alongside her, where they belonged, Beatrice did not want to stay _here_ , where the memory of the Beast lingered in the branches and the roots. Wirt must have shared her concerns, for he scrambled to his feet and picked up Greg in his arms, denying the help Beatrice offered him. She scooped up Jason Funderburker the Frog and followed Wirt on shaky, cold legs. She also picked up the tea kettle she dropped earlier once they passed it; Jason Funderburker hopped into the mouth without a hesitation. They stopped once they could no longer see the remainder of Greg’s premature and stony Edelwood tree, but the nighttime and their lethargy factored into their distance as well.

Wirt placed his little brother at the base of a tree where the snow had never reached. Greg, fast asleep and blissfully unaware of all that had transpired, did not stir at any of this. Beatrice placed the tea kettle containing Greg’s frog next to the passed out boy. The frog poked its head above the kettle’s opening, staring blankly at its young owner, before curling back to the bottom of the kettle for shelter from the cold.

“I hope he recovers soon,” Wirt whispered, his eyes admiringly fixated on the little boy. Beatrice glanced at the elder brother. He was fighting the urge to cry tears of happiness and worry, happiness that his brother was alive and would be okay, worry that his brother might have a slow recovery. She pressed her hand against Wirt’s upper arm. Their eyes met—heavy, fatigued eyes, brown and blue, mixed and locked together. They smiled at each other, a silent understanding between them.

“You should rest,” Beatrice said, breaking her eyes from Wirt’s. “We still have to get the wall.”

Wirt plopped next to Greg. “Oh, right.” He unfastened the buttons of his cape and removed the wool to blanket it over Greg. As sweet and heartfelt a gesture it was, Beatrice wondered if Wirt would survive the rest of the night without it. The collared white dress shirt he wore had long sleeves, but it was noticeably thin.

Wirt showed no concern for this as he set aside his red hat and reclined against the tree trunk. Beatrice sat next to him as he yawned. “It’s weird,” he said solemnly, “my body is tired, but I don’t think I can go to sleep—not immediately after all _that_.”

She understood what he meant; she expected the same from herself. “I can help with that,” Beatrice offered. “Just put your head in my lap.” She scolded herself for sounding too eager. _I sound like Lorna_.

“What?”

“Oh c’mon, Wirt,” she fired back before any other ideas could settle in her mind. Beatrice was not about to argue with her friend after all that had happened. She grabbed a hold of the shoulder closest to her and tugged at him.

Wirt circled his shoulder to shake her off. “W-What’re you doing?”

“I’m going to comb your hair.”

Wirt chuckled. “Are you going braid it, too?”

“Don’t be such a weirdo,” Beatrice grumbled. She held out her hand again, ready to move him around, but to stop her, Wirt clasped his around her wrist. Despite the cold air and the snowy ground, Beatrice burned.

Wirt set her hand down and wriggled around until his back was flat on the ground, his head in Beatrice’s lap. He stared up at her. She laughed at the sight of his blank expression (and hoped it was dark enough that he could not see the rosiness in her cheeks).

“Now what?”

Beatrice ran her fingers through his brown hair. “Just close your eyes. My mother used to do this with me when I was younger and couldn’t sleep. It’s supposed to be soothing and let you fall asleep faster.”

Beatrice sensed Wirt’s tense shoulder muscles through the fabric of his white shirt and her blue dress. The strands of his ashy brown hair were fine and smooth against the warming-up skin of her fingers. They remained quiet, their minds either on the same wavelength, or not at all. All Beatrice wrapped her mind around was seeing Wirt outsmart the Beast and save his brother. It was an impossible task, and yet a fifteen-year-old boy from across the Garden Wall was able to free the woods of the terrible shadow.

“Wirt?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s incredible, what you did.”

“Um, thank you,” Wirt accepted with meek gratitude, followed by a pause. “I’m really sorry I didn’t wake you up when I first saw he was gone. But I’m glad I found you again.”

She avoided his gaze, and pushed down the warm giddiness inside of her. “I’m glad you found me, too.”

Wirt closed his eyes. “I couldn’t’ve found Greg without you.”

“Please,” Beatrice dismissed.

“No, I’m serious,” he pressed on. “You helped me find Greg. If it wasn’t for you—”

“You’re forgetting Ellery.”

“She’s not here right now, I’m talking to you. And _you_ believed in me, even when I didn’t.”

Her heart lifted at this statement, but she kept quiet. She was grateful that Wirt said nothing to follow up this statement; she had nothing to add, nothing to comment on. Within minutes, as she combed through his hair with her fingers, his muscles relaxed, his shoulders dropping into a relaxed position, the tensions around his eyes releasing and softening. His breathing slowed. The gentle repetitious movement of her hand in his hair certainly unwound her.

This was supposed to be good. The Beast was gone. She was no longer cursed. Greg was safe. Her friends would return to their home safely.

So why was her heart dangling by a single thread on the cusp of breaking?

It was easier to be a bird in Wirt’s presence.

Birds cannot smile big goofy smiles whenever dorky boys do dorky things. They cannot blush from attraction when baby-faced boys stare or touch them. They can stare at boys with crooked noses and big ears for as long as they want without it going noticed. They can sit on the knobby shoulders of skinny boys without going knobby-kneed themselves.

It was definitely easier for Beatrice to be a bluebird when Wirt was around.

She would even say she _preferred_ it.

Except, not really.

It was harder for her to be a human around Wirt. She smiled those big goofy smiles whenever Wirt went off on his informative, nerdy tangents, or tripped over his own feet because he was uncoordinated, or composed lines of poetry out loud and on the spot. She blushed whenever they looked at each other, or his hand brushed against hers. If she stared at him for too long, surveying his bent nose and rounded jaw and goofy ears, he would notice—or maybe, she noticed her own staring. Perching herself on his shoulder was impossible as a human, and if he just _said_ something or _looked_ at her a certain way, her knees buckled underneath her.

With Wirt near her, she abhorred being a human.

And she also loved it.

In the moment when she smiled, or reddened, or gazed, or shook, her own body language betrayed her, and she hated how her emotions could be made so public, advertised to the person she wished to keep them from. But after the smiles, the blushes, the looks, and the shivers, as the boys slept and she stayed awake, Beatrice cherished just being able to experience such human sensations. She remembered the first weird twinge, the first night she and him spent their time talking well into the wee hours of the morning, when she wrestled him and successfully pinned his arms above his head and against the floor. At first, it was like wrestling with one of her brothers—total play, no real reason, no end goal other than victory. But time stood still when she remained above him, their eyes hooked together, a complete silence surrounding them. Deep in the pit of her stomach, it went off. She ignored it then, and unheeded subsequent ones until she could no longer neglect them.

Like now.

How could she ever deny herself the intensity? Even with the impending departure in the day, or two, she savored the warmth that emanated within her chest and spread to every ligament and tendon. All was well. Greg was safe. The Beast had perished. The Woodsman reunited with his daughter., Greg and Wirt would be back over the Garden Wall soon, but she chose to ignore this. For the time being, she focused on Greg, sleeping against the tree, unaware of it all, and Wirt, with his head in her lap and her fingers in his hair.

“Wirt?” she said at a normal pitch.

He was unresponsive.

“Wirt, are you awake?” she asked once more. Still no response. He was fast asleep.

“Wirt, I’ve kept a lot of secrets from you and Greg,” she said, uncertain of why she started to speak and what she would say. All she knew was that it felt _right_. “Leading you farther away from the wall and my curse, for starters. The Edelwoods and the Beast. But I was only trying to protect you two. I think. Those from your side of the wall shouldn’t know about just how terrifying it could be, and the truths of all the people who did cross the wall but never returned—all those things the Woodsman talked about. Even on this side of the wall, we didn’t know the full scope of it all. It was all terrible stuff, but even if you were such an asshole when I first met you…you didn’t need to know any of that. I still kind of wish you never knew about it.”

Beatrice paused. He and Greg were still asleep.

“I guess it’s no secret that I thought you were a jerk. I mean, you held me captive at first. And you’re so stubborn, you nerd! Stubborn and passive-aggressive. You think you’re so smart and that you know _everything_! It’s so frustrating because you’ll just—”

She stopped in her verbal tracks. “That’s…not the point. What I’m trying to say is that, not that you can hear me, but, well, things have changed. A lot, actually. Ever since the curse, I separated myself from my family, determined to fix the shame I’d brought upon them and myself, also afraid that they’d hate me because I was the reason. I was alone for so many months.”

Her eyes lined with salty, hot water. “No, that’s not even true. I was alone before the curse. I had my family, but I didn’t always get along with them. I didn’t have friends, except for our pet dog. You probably know that I can be pretty… _abrasive_. And mean. My mother always said it’s the red hair. But you know me. I’m hotheaded and I have a short fuse, and…well, you and Greg are my first friends. My _best_ friends, actually. Being with you for all this time, it’s like I’ve known you for years.” She glanced over at the sleeping Greg. “Greg is a sweetheart. When you told me that he was missing, it was like I lost one of my own brothers. And seeing him turning into an Edelwood? I can’t imagine what you were thinking. I know you love him. He’s a handful, but he’s kind. I’m sort of jealous he’s your brother and not mine.”

Beatrice felt as if she was standing on the edge of a high cliff now, looking into a massive lake below, knowing well enough she was going to take the plunge—but wondering _how._ Would she walk off and pretend it was unexpected? Would she charge full-throttle and dive headfirst?

“And, you, Wirt? I can’t even begin to explain how I feel about you.” An extra step to the edge. “I wanted nothing to do with you at first, but in the time since then, I don’t know. I kind of… _like_ listening to you talk, you know? You aren’t so annoying. And cutting my wings gave you a few brownie points.” She laughed weakly, only to bite her lower lip afterwards. She did not _have_ to take that leap, or plunge, or whatever she was going to recklessly do right now ( _is it reckless? It’s like being cautious and reckless all at once)._ She could stop. Walk away from the edge of the cliff and never bring this up again.

“But Marguerite and Lorna wondered if I, well…felt more towards you.” Was she diving or walking off at this point? “Which I thought was damn stupid. I mean, you’re shorter than me! I tried so hard not to pay attention to them.” She could stop. Wirt could not hear her, anyways. “But when I thought that you’d gone over the wall without saying goodbye, I was furious—and disappointed, and sad. My heart sank. Maybe it split right in two.”   _Right now, I can stop. Wirt can’t hear me._ “But when I saw you in the meadow, I realized how right Marguerite and Lorna were.”

The tears rolled from her eyes, no reason to hold them back anymore. Amidst the bleariness and her drippy nose, she choked out what she kept hidden from herself for the past few days. “I do feel more for you, and it’s not just a friendship. I _like_ you, Wirt, like you… _romantically_ , and I know you can’t hear me and you don’t feel the same way.” But that was the point. Wirt did not return those feelings, but he could not hear her, either. She could say whatever. “We’ve known each other for so little time, and I hated you at the beginning, or maybe I didn’t hate you…I just didn’t _know_ you. But I do now, and _I have feelings for you._ ”

She sniffed. “I wish you and Greg could stay here. It’s selfish of me to think that, I know, and I know you have to go back—but I had to say it for my own sake.” She stopped winding her fingers in his hair and sighed. “After everything that’s happened, I think it’s time I start being honest to myself.”

She was floating at the surface of that lake now, undisturbed and weightless. Beatrice closed her eyes and sat back against the tree trunk, hoping that she would fall asleep soon and the tears would cease.

* * *

Wirt waited for Beatrice to resume, but her breathing slowed into little snores.

* * *

The sun was not quite at the highest point in the clear sky when Wirt woke up, but it was close enough for him to consider it noon. However long he slept was not enough; he yawned right as he opened his still-drowsy eyes and rolled onto his sides. He brought his hands underneath his head as a boundary from the ground.

This felt like _déjà vu_ —half-asleep on the ground, a chilly breeze…

Wirt’s spine shot up straight. “Greg?!” he hollered, his chest constricting and his heart hurdling at the fear that Greg was—

Next to him. Asleep and calm, curled underneath the Union soldier’s cloak. Jason Funderberker the Frog ( _Jason Funderfrog has a nice ring to it_ ) was at his face, a protective and solid forced despite its absent stare. Wirt’s face softened as he sighed of relief and leaned back. It was a new day, Greg was with him, and they were safe. The Woodsman was right; there really _was_ a serenity to the atmosphere now. With the sun out on this late morning, it was kind of warm, too, with the breeze the only reminder that it was still autumn, but pleasant to the touch. Wirt folded his hands onto his lap and let his eyelids fall once again.

“Good, you’re awake!”

Wirt juddered from the thundering voice of Beatrice (and intentionally so, he thought, but he decided not to call her out on it). Beatrice stood at his feet with a mischievous sneer on her face, and her wavy auburn hair hung loose over her shoulders. With both of her fists, she clutched the skirt of her dress in a manner that created a makeshift basket. “While you were sleeping the morning away, I went ahead and foraged for some berries and nuts for us to eat. We left that basket of Adelaide’s wherever, so now we have to live off the land again.” She stooped to the ground, displaying her gatherings in her lap. She grabbed a red fruit in between her index finger and thumb—a rose hip. “Want one?”

Wirt nodded.

“Well, aren’t you going to take it?” Beatrice groused. She brandished the rose hip to his face.

“Oh, um, yeah.” He outstretched his hand and watched as Beatrice gingerly placed the fruit into his palm. He chewed at the fruit and snatched another five from the dozen in Beatrice’s lap; the thought of having his hand close to Beatrice’s thighs flustered him enough.

“I already had my share of rose hips. The rest are for Greg, if he’ll eat.”

Wirt popped an extra rose hip into his mouth and turned to Greg. “Greg, _pst,_ hey Greg.”

“Unnh…”

“Do you want some rose hips for breakfast? Or brunch? It is the most important meal of the day.”

“The best meal, too,” Greg squeaked as he struggled to sit up. Wirt handed his brother one of the rose hips. Greg nibbled at it until it was finished, but did not ask for another one. He patted Jason Funderberker before closing his eyes again.

Wirt finished his rose hips as Beatrice placed the remaining six into Greg’s tea kettle. “We have to hurry. We lost a lot of travel time from sleeping in,” she said as she stood up and smoothed her skirt down. The blue was stained with the red juice of the rose hips. Her red hair framed her freckled face, and Wirt noticed how the fiery locks complemented the cool blue of her dress. He never saw her as a human in full sunlight. He saw her in sunset, moonlight, and the many lanterns and candles adorning the Endicott-Grey estate, but never in the day time. It was like seeing a famous painting in person, absorbed in the grandeur while picking up the details never studied before.

“You look nice,” he thought aloud. He clammed up when Beatrice looked at him— _why did I say that out loud?—_ and held his breath.

Beatrice, however, only laughed. “Yeah, _okay_ , Wirt. And you _don’t_ look like you had the worst sleep of your life.” Her laughter petered out, and she gave him a grave look. “You _did_ sleep, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered almost too quickly. “I slept great. I woke up not even thirty minutes ago, didn’t I?”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes at him, but shrugged it off. “Okay then. See if you can get Greg up, or carry him.”

Wirt shook Greg awake, but his brother rolled away. He threw the cape over his shoulders and fastened the first buttons together. With Beatrice’s help, Wirt was able to hoist Greg onto his back piggyback style. Hopefully he could carry the added weight for a longer distance than he had the evening before. Jason Funderberker hopped onto his shoulder—a reminder of Beatrice as a bluebird and the amount of time she spent at that exact spot. Beatrice carried the tea kettle with the rose hips, and they set about their way to the Garden Wall.

The day’s journey was not long, but it was challenging. With carrying Greg on his back, and still reeling from the previous night’s running, Wirt wanted to collapse to the ground with every step and beg that they stop for the day. He could see it in Beatrice, too. She limped a little as she walked, claiming this to be from the soreness in her back and legs (only prompting Wirt to think about Beatrice’s legs, and how long they were despite the dress around them) and she grunted every few steps or so. They did stop on occasion to eat other foods of the forest (Beatrice found another bush of autumn olives; Wirt was certain he learned more about woodland survival from her than the short time he spent in Boy Scouts) and rest their feet along with other necessities. But Beatrice insisted they keep walking, so he did. Most of the snow had melted away, a few clumps and patches sticking in the shadier parts of the forest floor, while water dripped from the branches and glistened in the disappearing daylight.

To distract themselves from the discomfort of walking, Beatrice and Wirt asked each other questions about themselves. Nonsensical, inconsequential questions. Wirt told her he preferred tea to coffee, while Beatrice hated both. His favorite fruit was raspberries because they were delicate; Beatrice liked apples because of their versatility. Wirt guessed Greg’s favorite to be lemon because of lemonade. Spaghetti was his favorite food because it was the first dish he learned to cook for himself. Beatrice usually hated working in the kitchen with her mother because it was too stuffy and crowded, but she always enjoyed the smell of pot roast with carrots and potatoes. Once, shortly after Greg was born, Wirt watched a nature documentary about animals that eat their young, and he dreamt later that night that his parents ate him and Greg. Beatrice admitted to putting the farm cat in the ice box when she was younger because she thought he would like it there.

Wirt had so many questions to ask Beatrice, and he avoided the one he wanted to ask the most.

They stopped walking once the sun dipped below the canopy of the trees and the light was almost nonexistent. “Maybe about another five miles to go, but it’s dark, and my legs hurt.” (There was that mention of her legs. Wirt hated it; it made his head light and his stomach a yo-yo.) Wirt slid Greg onto the ground and took a seat next to him. Beatrice released a weighty breath as she dropped next to Wirt.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“No. I’m more tired than hungry.”

“Me too.”

“Greg?” Wirt poked at his little brother. “Greg, are you hungry?”

“N-no.”

“Let him sleep,” Beatrice suggested. “He’s still recovering.”

“But is it any good? He should be eating something for a _good_ recovery.” Wirt grabbed a rose hip from the tea kettle and held it to Greg’s face. “C’mon, Greg, you have to at least have a snack.”

Beatrice reached both of her hands over to the one near Greg. Wirt tensed at her touch; her body was leaning over his, too. “He’s okay. He’s not in pain,” she soothed. Her hair smelled of gingerbread.

A sticky juice oozed between their fingers. Beatrice moved away to wipe her hands on her dress. Wirt opened his fist; the fleshy carcass of the rose hip sat at the center, shriveled and emitting the red liquid. He tossed it to the ground and rubbed his hand against his pant leg, not that it helped. Beatrice laughed at him. He huffed at first, but then laughed at himself, too. He set aside the cone hat and draped his cloak over Greg again.

“Don’t you get cold? Would you like Sara’s coat?”

“No, you keep it.”

Seconds passed before either of them said a word. Beatrice in the moonlight was soft and ethereal, her freckles darker and amplified against her alabaster skin.

“Sara _is_ nice.”

“Hmm?”

“Sara. I met her, remember? This is her coat. She’s nice, like you said. I can see why you like her.”

“Oh.” Wirt was unsure if this was territory he wanted to explore or not. “Yes, she’s nice. But I don’t think I like her anymore. I don’t know if I ever liked her.”

Beatrice cocked her head to the side. “Really? Why’s that?”

“I mean, I do like her, as a friend. But romantically, maybe I only liked the _idea_ of her. You said yourself I didn’t really know her.” He scratched his head. “Typical hopeless poetic loser stuff, I guess.”

“Oh.” Beatrice shifted in her seat on the ground. “Is…is there a reason you think that now?”

Silence arose. Wirt outstretched his hand so he could rest it on her cheek, a final, _final_ reassurance for himself that she was in fact real and that this—all of this—was not a dream. _Wait, no, that’s dumb,_ Wirt mentally countered, and retracted his hand away before it touched Beatrice’s face. His mind ran laps in search of what exactly he was doing, and what he was feeling. Was he going to do this?      

He kind of _had_ to, did he not?

“Did…did you mean what you said?”

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “What I said?”

Had she not understood what he meant, or was she pretending it never happened? Wirt contemplated whether or not he could laugh it off and act as if it was nothing, but knowing Beatrice, she would make him finish. His heart pounded, and Wirt dug his hole even deeper. “L-last night.”

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “I don’t know what you’re—” She stopped, and a hand slapped itself across her opened mouth. “You _heard_ that? But you were asleep! I asked and you didn’t respond!”

“I-I-I _was_ a-asleep,” Wirt stuttered, “but I woke up at one point, and you were talking to yourself about how lonely you had been, and…I don’t know. I didn’t want to stop you.” He rubbed the back of his head and calculated when would be the best time to flee from the scene. Except he kept himself seated, and with a nervous gulp, Wirt added, “You were saying all these kind things—”

Beatrice punched Wirt in the arm and subsequently buried her face into the palms of her hands. “Oww!” The impact left his upper arm stinging and sent mildly painful ripples throughout the rest of the limb.

“Goddammit, this is embarrassing!” Beatrice muffled through her fingers. “The whole point of you sleeping was so that you _couldn’t_ hear what I was saying. It’d be like I didn’t say it at all!”

Wirt pried her hand away from her hot, dewy face. She refused to look up at him, instead her eyes transfixed on the patch of ground separating them. She exhaled a heavy sigh and brought her right hand into her lap. If he frowned or smiled, it was hard to say. It felt like both, as odd as it was. “It’s…it’s okay,” he mumbled. “It’s…nice.” His face burned, as if he were badly sunburnt. His insides fluttered.

Beatrice crossed her arms in defiance. “How is it _nice_?” she growled; her eyes moved from the ground to his. In the moonlight, they shined a crystal blue, the green flecks overshadowed.

Wirt smiled. The girl in front of him—redheaded, freckled, furious and embarrassed—was the most wonderful person he ever knew.

“Well, probably because…” Wirt bit his lips, reminding himself to keep his eyes focused on hers. It was too late for him to turn back now, was it not? “B-because I…” No, he could not look her in the eyes as he said it. He darted his eyes off to the side before finishing his sentence—rushed, rambling, without a breath.

“ _Ifeelthesamewayaboutyoutoo_.”

He peeked at Beatrice’s softened face before shutting his eyelids together.

“What?” she whispered. “W-what was that?”

“P-please don’t make me say it again.” He opened one eye, then the other.

Another beat before them.

“Wirt, you shouldn’t—”

It was rambunctious impulse. It was the same, indescribable kind he experienced when he was seven and thought doing a belly flop off the community pool’s diving board was a good idea, when he was twelve and thought he could inline skate faster than anyone else, when he first crossed the Garden Wall.

Wirt pulled away almost as soon as his lips came into contact with Beatrice’s—out of fear and uncertainty for what he was actually doing. It was the first time he ever kissed a girl, let alone said girl being _Beatrice_. She gave off an expression of astonishment. His nose panged a little; it had squashed against Beatrice’s when he kissed her.

“I-I-I’m sorry! I d-don’t know what—”

He stopped at the touch of Beatrice’s hand against the back of his head, her fingers weaved through portions of his hair. Her hand was cold, but satisfying to feel against his scalp. She was closer to him, too—close enough to cause his already amplified heartbeat to quicken. With her hand, Beatrice gently pushed his head towards hers, and kissed him. This time, it was more concentrated. Exhilarating and fascinating, with time frozen but Wirt self-aware of how his body felt. His heart thumped; his skin boiled; his stomach rode a rollercoaster, with twists and turns and ups and downs; the suddenly sweet, fresh, autumn-chilled air with the faint hint of winter breezed past the two of them. He thought Beatrice knew what she was doing, but she was also inexperienced in her own right. Instinct told him to wrap his arms around Beatrice’s waist and press her body against his. He was not sure if he was actually reciprocating the kiss, but Beatrice pulled away before Wirt could make any further decisions. She turned away.

“You _really_ shouldn’t feel that way about me,” she stated, simple and clear.

“But…but I _do_ ,” Wirt responded. “And you feel the same about me.”

“Since…since when have you felt the same?”

“Um, I don’t know?”

Beatrice’s brows rutted together. She held up another hand, ready to smack his arm again.

“I don’t!” he hollered, arms held up in the air. “It kinda just…happened…I guess.” He eyed her, seeking her approval.

Beatrice dropped her hand into her lap and sighed. “You shouldn’t feel that way about me,” she repeated.

“Why?”

“You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“But you’re coming to see my side, too. Hear me play clarinet and all.”

“And after that? You stay and I go.”

Wirt ignored that. He wished to kiss her again. He liked the previous two, _especially_ the second one—the fuzziness they gave him. When he brought his face closer to hers, she moved backwards and shot him a concerted glare. He fell forwards.

“You’re going home, Wirt. _Tomorrow_.”

Wirt backed away, forced to consider Beatrice’s statements _. We’re going back tomorrow._ He spent the last two weeks on a journey meant to return him and his brother to their hometown—but in the last few days, it felt more like a necessity, something he _should_ do rather than what he wanted to do. And now, with Beatrice’s previous words and the electrified emotion coursing between the two of them, Wirt realized he had not called his house “home” for many days now. Clearly that held some psychological, subconscious meaning behind it? If his physical home was no longer a _spiritual_ home, he wondered— _what if, maybe…_

“I don’t want to think about that right now.”

Beatrice scrunched her nose and eyes together. “We _have_ to think about it.”

“Not tonight. Let’s not think about it tonight.”

“But you’re _leaving tomorrow_ ,” she repeated again, this time slower, hesitant and worried, rather than the unemotional reminder from before.

“But not to _night_ ,” he blurted, taking one of her hands into his. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and reopened his eyes. “‘I have travel’d a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you.’”

Beatrice rolled her eyes, but her concern thawed. “Is that one of your own?”

“It’s another Walt Whitman.”

“Good grief, you’re a total loser.”

He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Even with Greg, nearby and asleep, they were the only two people alive.

“Please, let’s just have tonight,” Wirt pleaded once he thought it was safe for him to bring up the matter once again. “We’ll pretend it won’t end, okay?”

“And when it does?” Beatrice murmured.

“Then we’ll worry about it then.”

Wirt placed his hands on Beatrice’s shoulders and leaned forwards to kiss her forehead. He moved backwards and held her hands in his lap as he waited for Beatrice to provide him with an answer. She stared at him with her deceiving doe eyes. She twisted a tendril of her red hair around her index finger, an accompanying, subdued smile. “Okay.” Quiet and nervous. A beat. She released the curl. “Okay,” she reiterated, resolute and louder.

As Wirt’s lips opened and curved upwards, she kissed him.

* * *

“You know, I don’t _want_ to like you.”

“I don’t want to like _you_ , either.”

“Shut up, Wirt. You totally want to like me. I’m wonderful in every way imaginable.”

“See? You’re so egotistical.”

“You’re passive-aggressive.”

“You’re selfish.”

“So are you!”

“You’re mean.”

“You’re indecisive.”

“You swear a lot.”

“You’re too careful, until you’re not.”

“You’re not careful _enough_.”

“You’re a worrywart.” She snorted. “A worry-Wirt.”

“You make terrible jokes.”

“I make great jokes. You just have a terrible sense of humor.”

“There it is again. Your arrogance.”

“You’re a know-it-all.”

“And you aren’t?”

“You’re poetic.”

“You’re confident.”

“You’re…short.”

“You’re…redheaded.”

“You have big ears and a big nose.”

“You have a ton of freckles.”

“You have puny arms. And your hands are like doll hands.”

“You have pretty blue eyes.”

“Your shoulders make you disproportionate.”

“You’re beautiful.”

She paused and pressed her lips together in a line to hide the creeping smile. “Give it a few years, and you won’t look so bad yourself.”

* * *

“I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.’”

Wirt, with his eyes closed, felt Beatrice move away from him. He opened his eyes to see her gazing at him with a raised eyebrow. “More dorky poetry?”

“It’s a quote from a book. _Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen.”

Beatrice snickered. “That sounds very stuffy and very boring.”

“It’s not.” Even though he read it last year in his freshman English class, he enjoyed it, along with Jane Austen’s other works. “I think you’ll like it. You remind me of Elizabeth Bennett, the heroine.” It was up to Beatrice to decide if he was Fitzwilliam Darcy. He hoped he was.

Beatrice, however, was unamused. “Well what does it mean, you loser? You can’t just say that without explanation and expect me to know what it means.”

Wirt acted offended, but truth be told, he anticipated Beatrice’s jest. He had his reasons—he quoted Austen so he could return to a question she asked him before.

“It’s a line towards the end, when Mr. Darcy—”

“Eww, his name is Mr. _Darcy_?”

Wirt ignored her interjection. “Mr. Darcy re-confesses his feelings for Elizabeth. He doesn’t know _when_ he started to feel for her, he just knows that he does.” Wirt paused to see if Beatrice was understanding him. It was hard to tell, but she erased the smirk from her face, and stared at him with a keenness. “Well, that’s me. I don’t know _when_ I started to have feelings for you…but I know it happened at one point, and here I am now.”

Beatrice smiled. “Not even an estimate?”

“Well, I mean…I know I started to think of you differently after we talked in the wardrobe.”

“Gross, Wirt. I was a bird.”

“Not like that!” he shot back, although he knew she was teasing him for the sake of receiving a reaction. “Besides, by that point, I knew you were actually a human. But I think that’s when we became friends. Now, _romantic_ feelings? I don’t know, really.”

Beatrice poked his nose. “I think, for me, it was when you played the bassoon.”

Wirt cringed. “I don’t believe you.”

“Even if you were terrible, and I mean _actually_ terrible, I wouldn’t’ve known. I just liked how you wanted to cheer me up.” She paused. “Or, maybe it that first night, when we were talking. You could be a real troubadour, with your poems and instruments.”

“Does it really matter, though?” Wirt asked. “Does it matter _when_ we started to have feelings for each other?”

“We’ve known each other for two weeks. I think it matters a lot.”

Wirt squeezed her hand. “You and I both know it feels longer than that.”

Beatrice rested her cheek onto his shoulder. “It does.”

* * *

“This is like _From Here to Eternity_.”

“What?”

“This.”

Beatrice raised an eyebrow at him. “Us?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s _From Here to Eternity?_ ”

“It’s a movie,” Wirt said. “There’s this famous scene where the two characters are kissing on the beach, and the waves roll over them.”

“We’re not on the beach. It’s too cold for that.”

“I know. But it’s the way we’re…” Wirt trailed off.

“The way we’re _what_?”

“P-positioned.”

Beatrice laid with her back to the ground. Wirt rested on his side, his hip against hers, propped on an elbow so that his upper body hovered over her. She giggled at his self-inflicted embarrassment. “Have you seen this movie?”

“Once with my mom. I don’t remember much about it, other than that scene because it’s easily recognizable.”

“And we’re like them?”

“Just in that scene. Maybe we can pretend the wind is water.”

“I don’t want to pretend anything.”

Wirt stared at her. “Neither do I.”

The wind and the rustling leaves and each other’s breathing filled the air around them. Beatrice reached up to caress his face, but Wirt seized her wrist with his free hand. Arrested in the silence with goosebumps on her arms and neck, Beatrice feared Wirt would set her hand down and end the moment—end the _night_ —altogether. However, Wirt brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the center of her palm, full and slow. Warm milk and honey poured into her stomach; the liquid seeped to her limbs and pumped through her veins. She failed to suppress a chuckle, and her smile was almost involuntary.

“What’s so funny?” Wirt asked when he pulled away from her hand, and he slackened his grip on her wrist. The pucker of his lips left a faint residue of moisture. Instead of gross and sloppy, it was intimate and romantic.

“You’re such a dork. Underneath all that cynicism and worry is a hopeless romantic.” She rustled her right hand, the one Wirt left kiss-less, in his hair.

Wirt wrinkled his face. “You don’t like when I kiss your hand?”

She rolled her eyes and honked his nose. “That is the exact opposite of what I meant, you loser. You should know by now my compliments are disguised as insults.”

“Oh,” was all Wirt said, but he smiled softly and kissed her left palm again. He kissed her fingertips and knuckles, each contact of her skin and his lips cautious, warm, sweet, and lingering.

“You done?” she teased once his lips left her thumb’s lower knuckle.

“You just said you like it when I kiss your hand.”

“I do,” she confirmed, and clenched her fingers around the collar of his shirt. “But I’m afraid you’ll spend so much time kissing my hand and start with the other one, you’ll be too tired to kiss _me_.”

Even in the dark, she saw Wirt roll his eyes, but he grinned at her, too. As he leaned down to kiss her, she pressed an index finger to his lips. “Oh, and one more thing—”

“What now?” he muffled.

“I know it’s bound to happen because you’re this literary type and all, but ease up on all the references.” She could feel Wirt begin to open his mouth, but she pushed her finger harder against his face. “I don’t want to be some random couple on a beach, or this Elizabeth and Mr. Funny-name—”

“Mr. Darcy—”

“Well, I don’t want us to be them. I want us to be us.” She removed her finger. “Beatrice and Wirt, former cursed bluebird and goofy looking pushover.”

She searched Wirt’s face, but even with the unusually bright moonlight, it was difficult to read his expression. “Okay,” he agreed with a nod of the head, and finally another grin.  

Maybe she had more to say, but before those thoughts arose, Beatrice yanked his shirt towards her and pulled him into a deep, fervent kiss.

* * *

Neither of them admitted it, but the day ahead frightened them. They chose not to discuss it with each other that night, and they never did.

But they thought about it on their own.

Nuzzled next to each other, they wanted to stay awake for as long as possible, just in case the night would never end. Beatrice kissed him at various spots on his face—his cheeks, his nose, his lips—during the comfortable silences. Wirt stroked her hair and told stories about him and Greg growing up. Every cheesy word of his poetry, every trivial story they shared with one another, every kiss, every squeeze of the hand, every lighthearted quip—with the morning ahead and the mystery it held, none of it would go to waste.

* * *

At this moment, far up in the clouds, a little boy sat on wispy tufts that looked like pink and blue cotton candy. His body slept soundly, but the spirit looked over the scene. This was not his first time in the clouds, but it was the first time he chose not to play with the various cloud spirits, and instead opted to pay attention to his brother and their friend, who was once a bluebird.

Greg squished his cheeks together as Wirt and Beatrice talked. They beamed because they were happy, and being nice to each other. The way they looked at each other was the way his parents looked at each other—stupidly but excitedly. Their voices were soft, so as not to disturb the sleeping Greg beside Wirt, but they could have spoken as loud as they wanted, it would not wake him up. Greg listened to their conversations, silly and serious. Wirt often spoke several lines of poetry, and Beatrice would tease him about it.

“Blech,” he said with accompanying raspberry noises whenever Wirt and Beatrice kissed, but he secretly liked seeing the two of them share these gestures. The whole time he and Wirt knew Beatrice, Greg witnessed the two arguing and bickering and being mean to each other, even after they announced their friendship. It was nice to see them not being mean, but being kind and sweet and all lovey-dovey, even if being lovey-dovey also meant acting gross.

“Young love is so astounding,” said the nice voice Greg had grown accustomed to in his various night-time trips to the clouds.

“I think Wirt and Beatrice will get married,” he responded. He stuck his tongue out when Beatrice kissed Wirt’s nose for the fourth or fifth time that night. “Were they meant to be together? Is Beatrice Wirt’s ‘one?’ That’s what my mom and dad call each other that sometimes.”

“That’s difficult to determine, Gregory,” his friend replied. “Your brother was always meant to come here, to this side of the Garden Wall. But was Beatrice meant to cross paths with the two of you? I’m afraid I cannot answer that. I don’t know if anyone can.”

The gentle woman remained quiet. Beatrice and Wirt had stopped kissing, but they sat next to each other closely. “I must send you back, Greg.” She sounded serious, like when his mom asked him to do some chores around the house, or finish his homework.

He pouted. “Aww, already?”

“It’s time for you to return to the ground. But I will see you tomorrow. I promise you that.”

“Okay!” Greg accepted.

He slept until the morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it, folks. This slow burn has finally culminated. 
> 
> I like to think of this penultimate chapter (yes, penultimate!) as my birthday present to one of my real life best friends, Laura S. Happy 23rd, déesse! 
> 
> Poetry credit: "Out of the Rolling Ocean the Crowd" by Walt Whitman. There is also that _Pride & Prejudice _ quote


	19. Without a Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter went so well that I decided to upload it earlier than I planned. So, behold, without further ado, "Without a Hurt."
> 
> * * *
> 
> There is a time and place  
> for one more sweet embrace
> 
> \- ["How"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B8H3LbxO44k) by Regina Spektor

Wirt woke up as the sun leached through the tree branches, many of them barren if they were not still clinging to the brittle brown leaves. The nip of cold in the air whisked around the trees and the three bodies. Soreness lingered in Wirt’s muscles, especially in his shoulders and his legs, but with less ferocity than the day before. Greg curled underneath the wool cape with Jason Funderberker at his face. Wirt was half-lying down, half-reclined against the tree trunk; he held one arm around Beatrice, who used his chest as a pillow. When he first woke up, he wondered what the splay of red was in front of him, and he blushed at the memories of the previous night. Kissing, and talking, and more kissing, and more talking—he did not remember falling asleep, but he _did_ remember the last conversation they had.

_“Your shoes…”_

_Wirt’s eyelids fluttered open. When had he closed them? “Mhmm?” he hummed._

_“They’re not the same color.”_

_Wirt opened his eyes—again, he never recalled ever shutting them for a second time—and studied his shoes in the silvery-white light of the moon. “What’re you talking about? They’re both black.”_

_Beatrice moved away from him (his side chilled when she left_ ) _and shifted herself towards his feet. “They definitely are_ not _both black. This one is brown—” she pointed to his left foot, only to point at the right foot a second later, “but_ this _one is black._ ”

_Wirt scowled. “You’re crazy.”_

_“_ I’m _crazy? You’re the one wearing mismatched shoes and didn’t even notice.”_

_“If they are mismatched, which they aren’t, then you’re only noticing it now, too.”_

_Beatrice puffed and returned to his side. “There were more important things to worry about than your dumb shoes.” Wirt opened his mouth to retort, but Beatrice muttered, “Whatever it is you’re about to say,_ don’t _,” and planted her lips on his. They kissed for several minutes, one of those warm and desirous open-mouthed kisses seen in movies and television shows. Although it was the second time that night they had kissed in such a manner, Wirt had no idea what he was doing, but he assumed he was doing_ something _right. Beatrice never complained or stopped until their last remaining amount of energy withered away. She rested her head on the expanse of his chest and wrapped an arm over his waist. Wirt’s whole body heated up with her against him. He peeked over her head to glance at his shoes for one more time._

_“They’re black.”_

_“Shut up.”_

Beatrice was right. They were the same style, but one was black, and the other was a dark brown. Wirt scratched his head at how she could notice the difference at night (and how he never noticed). Maybe Beatrice only mentioned it to grind his gears. She reveled in grinding his gears. He reveled in her.

He spent this quiet time thinking. The night was over, and all the pleasantries they shared were now on the backburner. They were five miles from the Garden Wall, and they needed to make a plan. Once they crossed the wall and notified everyone that he and Greg were safe, how long would Beatrice stay on his side to see everything he discussed, and to see him play the clarinet? A few hours? A day? A week? And after that, then what? Beatrice would re-cross the wall to snip away the wings of her family, but what would it mean for Wirt and Beatrice’s future?

Did they even have a future?

Many ideas filtered through Wirt’s mind, and many of them he rejected. A few he filed away to discuss them with Beatrice once she woke up. He needed to hear her input in conjunction with his. She was with him in this, too. Two minds were better than one. That was what his mother always said.

Without a watch on him, Wirt lost track of how much time passed. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, and he might have fallen asleep again, but he was awake when Beatrice stirred. She turned her head around and flickered her eyes. “Good morning,” she whispered.

“Good morning.”

Even if she was half-asleep with crust in her eyes and underlining dark circles, she was stunning. Wirt leaned forwards and kissed the tip of her nose. Before he could retreat back, Beatrice caught his mouth with hers. Maybe if he ignored his conscious, Wirt could pretend the night extended into the day, and they could keep kissing, never to bring up the impending dilemma.

Beatrice pulled away first, much to Wirt’s chagrin. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Are there any rose hips left?”

“I think so,” Wirt said as he handed her Greg’s tea kettle. Beatrice reached into the mouth and procured two rose hips. One popped into her mouth, the other she offered to Wirt. He accepted it and chewed.

“Is Greg doing okay?”

Wirt poked at Greg, who groaned and turned onto his other side. “Not…now…Mom…”

“That sounds like _some_ progress,” Wirt remarked. He picked up another rose hip and ate it, but left the rest for Greg, just in case he woke up and needed to eat something.

The awkward and quiet seconds rolled on. It was an unspoken game of who would talk first, neither of them willing to start the conversation neither of them wanted to discuss. Wirt avoided Beatrice’s gaze, but snuck a few glances when he thought she could not see. Her red waves framed her exquisite face.

“So,” Beatrice piped up once the silence became unbearable. She sounded calm and undisturbed, as if she was the eye of a hurricane.

“So,” Wirt repeated, mimicking the collectedness of Beatrice’s tone. His chest tightened.

Beatrice inhaled a deep breath, holding it in for two seconds before exhaling. “You and Greg are leaving today.”

The hurricane arrived.

“Yes.”

“What should we do about it?” She flinched a little. “I mean, what should we do about _us_?”

Wirt reached out to hold her hand. It was warm and soft in his, almost doughy. “Well, do you want there to be an _us_?”

Beatrice glared at him. Even in her weariness, Beatrice kept her wits, and her sharp tongue, about her. “Wirt, really?”

“You have to say it,” Wirt furthered. If Beatrice did not want there to be a _them_ , then this discussion was over.

Beatrice nodded. “Yes. I want to be with you.”

Wirt refrained from sighing of relief, but restraining his small grin was impossible. “I want to be with you, too.” He squeezed her hand, which elicited a smile from Beatrice. His heart soared, but only for a second before dread and uncertainty swallowed it. “I’ve been thinking about possibilities, stuff _after_ you return back here.”

Beatrice dragged her hand out of his and fiddled with the suspenders he wore. She steadied her eyes on her hands, not about to look him in the eye. “Well, what are they?”

Wirt collected himself. “The first plausible one I thought of was Greg and I returning, and you going back to help your family. And then we could visit each other.”

Beatrice flicked her eyes up to meet his. “Visit?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Like, once a month, or something. I come visit you, and the next time, you come visit me.”

She pursed her lips together and fidgeted with the suspender straps once more. “It could work…”

“It could—”

“But not _well._ ” Beatrice moved her hands up to his collar, shaping and smoothing it.

“Not well?”

“We won’t have a way to communicate to each other. And what about our families? Namely, _your_ family? I don’t think they’d like you crossing the wall once a month, not after these past two weeks.”

“I’ve considered that.”

Beatrice’s hands stopped messing with his collar long enough for her to cock her head and raise an eyebrow. “Have you, Wirt?”

“Yes. I know it’s not a perfect solution, but it’s definitely a possibility.”

Her hands made their way back to his suspenders. “A possibility,” she muttered.

Wirt wrapped his hands over hers, forcing her to stop. He rubbed circles in her palms with his thumbs, much like she had with him before. “There is… _another_ option I thought of.”

“Okay.”

Before he resumed, Wirt kissed her forehead. “I was thinking that Greg and I could stay here.”

Beatrice’s jaw dropped, with wide and alert eyes. “Wirt, no, you can’t stay here—”

“Why not?”

Beatrice wormed her hands out of his grasp. She shook her head with vigor. “You have a family to get back to. They’re worried about you.”

“You said two nights ago that you _want_ us to stay.”

“I do, but…” Beatrice looked off to the side. “That’s a very selfish part of me.”

Wirt sat on his shins and knees. He tried to hold one of her hands, but she moved it away from him, so he cupped her face. She reddened underneath her freckles. “I don’t belong in my world, Beatrice. You said it yourself.”

“So if I say jump off a bridge, you’d do it?”

“Two entirely different things,” Wirt retorted. “Do you remember what the Woodsman said?”

“Sort of. He’s from the same place you and Greg are from.”

“Yes, and he mentioned someone else, too. And trees singing…and, Beatrice, I think he was onto something. I don’t know what exactly, but all I know is that I don’t really want to go back.”

Beatrice creased her forehead. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do,” Wirt rushed. “I feel weird there. I don’t have a lot of friends, and it’s like I’m invisible. But here?” He removed his hands from her face and outstretched them, indicating the vastness around him. “I can do anything, I can be anyone. You said you want us to stay here. Well, _I_ want to stay, and Greg! He loves it here. He’ll be okay, he’s recovering, and he’ll want to stay.” The words flowed out of him as he thought of them, unfiltered, almost unprocessed.

“And your parents?”

“I can leave them a note when we cross over the wall.”

It was Beatrice’s turn to cup his face, her hands cool to the touch. “You’re flustered. You don’t think straight when you’re flustered. The two of you have been missing for two weeks. Are you willing to run away for good?” One of her hands threaded itself in his hair, curling strands around her fingers. She was trying to dissuade him. He was about to answer with a solid and resolute _yes_ , but Beatrice stopped him with a light peck on the lips. She was soft, and warm, and…sad. It was the way she removed her lips from his—protracted and slow, almost a farewell kiss. “You’re going to say yes, and you’ll believe it,” she went on. “And I want the both of you to stay, I _do_ …but really think about this. I know you, Wirt.” It was an echo from the night they mutually declared their friendship, which was not too long ago, and yet it was a distant memory. “I know your caution and indecision go out the door once you get some confidence.”

For only two weeks of knowing each other, Beatrice had him pegged. They held their mutual gaze, frozen in time and space. Wirt _was_ thinking about it, and he saw no other option that would work as well as this one. It would hurt his mother, and John, but as long as they knew he and Greg were safe, and that they could visit whenever they wanted, then they would understand. Or maybe Wirt could reach an agreement of some kind. His parents would meet Beatrice when they went over this time, and it could be decided upon. This was not a foolproof idea, but it was a _better_ idea. Wirt chewed at his bottom lip. He bowed forward and touched his forehead against hers. The bridge of his nose almost fit into the curve of hers.

“Hello, Wirt. Hello, Beatrice.”

Wirt stumbled backwards, thudding onto the ground. He searched for the owner of the unexpected and unfamiliar voice. Two or three yards away, a tall and majestic figure stood. It was what looked like an adult woman, with delicate, waiflike features, and feminine voice. She was adorned in a ball gown, but something about her suggested she was not entirely human. A gauzy glow emanated around her.

“Um…hi,” Beatrice greeted, apprehensive.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” the woman said, “I didn’t mean to break up a tender moment. However, I am here for good reason.”

Wirt sat up next to Beatrice. He reached out for her hand. “I’m sorry, but how do you know our names?”

“Oh, yes, allow me to introduce myself. I am the Queen of the Clouds, and I have watched the three of you up in the Clouds ever since you and Greg crossed over the Garden Wall. In fact, I’ve come to know Gregory quite well in the past few days. I believe he’s mentioned it to you before.” She smiled. “Gregory is quite fond of you, Wirt. He adores his older brother. And Beatrice, he thinks you are absolutely lovely.”

Wirt suspected he and Beatrice were both experiencing a sense of gratitude and humility from hearing such praise. Greg always thought the best of people, no matter what. He drew his attentions back to the unfolding situation. “‘I was in the clouds last night,’” Wirt whispered to himself, remembering the time spent with Endicott and Margueritte. “So…Greg _wasn’t_ dreaming? He was actually visiting you…in the clouds?”

“Of sorts,” the Queen of the Clouds responded. “It was his spirit that came to Cloud City. I invited him to come join us nightly. As soon as he fell asleep, his spirit was escorted up to my kingdom. I could never come to the ground, not with the Beast’s power looming over the woods, but bringing Gregory’s spirit to the Clouds was my means of helping him.”

“Helping him?” Beatrice’s tone dripped with distrust.

The woman nodded. “Yes. You see, the Beast’s presence affected everyone who treaded in these woods, whether they lived here or not. He is quite the fighter, but if it was not for Gregory’s nightly visits to Cloud City, then he would have given way to the Beast’s power long before you stepped onto the ferry.”

“Greg…Greg’s recovering, right?”

“He will recover, but not here.”

Wirt’s heart sank right as his head thickened. “Is there something wrong?” he inquired, his eyes settling upon the sleeping boy.

“It isn’t _wrong_ , but it is detrimental,” the Queen of the Clouds pressed on. “Gregory cannot stay in this realm much longer. You have saved him from the Beast, but much of his energy is declining, due to what is already prevalent. He simply does not belong on this side of the Garden Wall.”

“What’re you talking about?” Beatrice again, with disdain and disbelief.

The Queen of the Clouds stepped closer to them. “I suppose I must share with you the history of the Garden Wall, and these woods. You see, Wirt, for thousands of years, there was no wall. The mysticism in these woods thrived alongside the native civilizations. Then the early colonists arrived, and settled into these parts. Some were rather enchanted with that magic that was offered. Others did not take so kindly to it. So the call for a physical boundary came about.”

“My town hasn’t been around since the sixteen or seventeen hundreds,” Wirt frowned.

“Perhaps not the town, but the land. Back then, it was vast farmland,” she explained. “Well, at first, the Garden Wall was a primitive, simple structure, but as you know, time goes on. It’s not what it used to be.”

“Walls aren’t sentient,” Beatrice growled.

“No, they are not. But they _can_ be enchanted.”

Wirt and Beatrice stayed quiet as they listened to the rest of the Queen’s tale. “I was tasked with enchanting the Garden Wall, for many of the people in these woods were afraid. They feared the wall would not hold back those who wished to persecute them, and they pleaded me to enchant it with an even more permanent boundary. So I did. I enchanted it so that crossing the barrier would take a physical toll on the travelers.”

Wirt did not want to hear any more. Instead, he asked, “What does that mean?”

“It means that those who cross from your side will not survive on this one, and the same goes for when one on this side cross to yours. Within a matter of weeks, no matter how healthy the traveler is, they will grow sick and die.”

Beatrice’s grip on his hand stiffened.

“The Beast warped this for the last two centuries. It is why Gregory’s health rapidly decreased within days, not weeks; the Beast manipulated the woods into feeding off the energy of those who have crossed from your realm. Once they were weak enough, it turned them into Edelwood, and used the oil to light its soul in its lantern. The Beast is gone now, and Gregory shows some sign of recovering, but it’s a slow, tedious one, and even then, it won’t be a full recovery. The Beast took much of his energy. He is bound to worsen and die in the coming weeks if he were not to return to your home, where he can recover quickly.”

A lump in the back of Wirt’s throat hardened. Greg was to _die?_ No. He refused to accept that.

“That doesn’t explain me. I’m not sick yet. I’m fine. I’ve _been_ fine!” he yelled. The anger coursing through him brought him to his feet. Beatrice joined him.

The Queen of the Clouds bowed her head. “Yes, well, I suppose that brings us to another topic. The enchantment I used, it works…most of the time. As the centuries passed, and many people did cross over, from the clouds I noticed how not _everyone_ was affected by the enchantment. Few of those who crossed never fell ill, never died within weeks. They lived long, healthy lives. I poured myself into studying these travelers and why the enchantment didn’t hurt them. Not even the Beast’s manipulations affected them. They spoke of the trees singing to them, begging them to stay, and so they did. You’ve met the Woodsman. He is one of these…pilgrims. He mentioned of another, did he not?”

Wirt nodded.

“I believe you are one of them, Wirt. I cannot explain why the Garden Wall’s enchantment has not… _harmed_ you or those who have preceded you. I have spent centuries figuring out why the anomaly occurs. My only guess is that there is a distant bloodline from the early settlers who chose to stay in these woods, but I’m afraid there’s no way of ever knowing.” She paused to examine the two teenagers huddled together. “I do suspect that it affects you in a different way, however. From what I understand, the longer you are to stay, the more you grow accustomed to this realm. You become like those who already live here.”

“And what does that mean?” Wirt asked. He preferred _not_ to know, to be honest, but this sudden rush of information sparked an inquistiveness in him.

“I don’t know for sure. None of your predecessors ever returned to your realm. That must speak for something.”

“It means you’d die,” Beatrice mumbled. Wirt’s eyes met hers, red in the whites. “If you were to go back after spending too much time on this side, you’d die in weeks.”

“It’s a possibility,” the Queen of the Clouds answered.

Wirt stared at his mismatched shoes. If the ground opened up and he fell into it forever, well, then that would be fine with him. “Why should we trust you?” His voice cracked as he spoke. This unearthly woman showed up at the last minute, sharing all this information?

“It’s less a matter a trusting me, and more a matter of doing what is best for your brother,” the Queen responded sagely. “I was intrigued with you and your brother. My curiosity is what led me to give Gregory some resilience against the Beast while you trekked back to the wall, but sadly, it wasn’t enough. I had to tell you everything now, after watching the two of you come to have an affection for one another. Your mutual feelings are the kind that so few ever truly experience, an emotional and physical attachment that could one day blossom into a profound and deep love.”

Ooh, those words stung. Beatrice clenched Wirt’s hand at the same moment he did with hers.

“I hate to disrupt the happiness you two found in each other, but I’m afraid there are larger concerns. I am so fond of your brother, and I wish I could remove that enchantment, but it’s not reversible. I made sure of that when I first cast it all those centuries ago.”

Wirt shook. Beatrice did, too; with her so close to him, and her hand in his, he felt her trembles. “Um…thank you,” he murmured.

“I must return to the clouds now,” the Queen replied. “Again, I am sorry for all of this, but I thought it was best if you knew. Please give my regards to Gregory when he awakens.”

Wirt nodded. The soft light and the regal woman dissipated from the scene, with a gentle breeze twirling several leaves around where she once stood.  

Wirt and Beatrice glared at each other before they tumbled to their knees in a frantic embrace. He breathed in her gingerbread-scented locks.

“I’m going to take him home, and then—”

“Wirt.”

“Then I’ll come back, and we can—”

“ _Wirt_.”

“Well, then I’ll visit him once in a while, and—”

“ _Wirt!_ ” Beatrice screamed. “You heard what she said.”

“Yes I did, but I can stay with you. I belong _here_ , with you—”

“ _No you don’t_ ,” Beatrice interrupted again. She shook his shoulders. “You belong with _Greg_. You nearly lost him once. I’m not letting you abandon him for my sake. I’d hate myself for it.” She paused. “ _You_ would hate _yourself_ for it.”

Wirt’s breath grew ragged and heavy, the precursor to a flow of tears waiting to be unleashed. He watched as Greg slept, undisturbed and tranquil. Jason Funderberker the Frog kept a watchful eye on him.

_This was good news,_ he tried to convince himself. Greg would recover...if he were on the other side. _Their_ side.

“I would,” he whispered. “I’d hate myself forever. Beatrice, I have to stay with Greg. He and I have to go back.”

“I know. I’ve been telling you that.”

“I have to be there for him.”

“You’re his brother.”

“I wasn’t much of one to him before.” He blinked, and the tears streamed down his face. Beatrice wiped the streaks away before taking his quivering hands into hers. “I need to be one to him now,” he continued with a weak voice. “I need to be a better brother.”

Beatrice kissed his cheeks. She acted as the strong one between the two of them, _not_ breaking down and encouraging him to go. But she shuddered like him, with watery eyes and sharp breaths. “I know what it’s like to be away from family. I don’t want you to ever experience that.”

“But what about you?” Wirt pouted. Despite everything, he was willing to entertain the nonexistent chance of them being together.

“You heard. I can’t go over.”

“You _can_ , maybe for a peek, at least to hear me play clarinet—”

“I won’t.”

“What?”

Beatrice smoothed down his hair and swiped the bangs out of his eyes. “I won’t go over with you, not even to hear you play your clarinet.”

Wirt’s heart dropped into his gut, leaving a deep emptiness in his chest. “But why?”

“It’ll be too painful for us.” She traced faint, delicate lines over the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones. “I think it's best if we say our farewells at the wall.”

“Come with us,” he pleaded. “Just for a day or two, just so we can be together a little longer.”

Beatrice only caressed his face, a melancholy smile on her face. “I’ve got to go home, too.”

“This isn’t fair,” he muttered. Just last night, he admitted his feelings to someone who felt the same about him. Within a few hours, it was stolen from them.

“The world is a miserable place,” Beatrice stated with a flatness to her tone. She kissed him lightly once more before shedding her own tears.

The silence returned to them as leaves drifted from the trees and onto the forest floor. Wirt pressed Beatrice as close to him as he could, stroking her hair as her hot breath fell on his neck. Maybe for another minute, or two, or ten, they could stay like this, frozen and together.

Beatrice wriggled herself out of his arms and stood up. “Wake up Greg. We have to go.”

Wirt nodded, accepting this defeat, and prodded at Greg’s side. “Greg? Greg, wake up.”

Greg shifted onto his back and opened his eyes. “Wirt? Wh-what’s going on?”

“We’re going back now.”

Greg sat up; Jason Funderberker the Frog leapt into his lap. “Sir Maddox, did you hear that? We’re going home.”

“Actually, Greg, his name is Jason Funderberker,” Wirt corrected.

“Jason Funderberker?” Greg’s pallid face erupted into glee. “The perfect frog name!”

Wirt, in turn, smiled to himself. Once he threw the cape over his shoulders and fastened the buttons, he rustled Greg’s hair. “Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Do you think you’re okay to walk?”

Greg wobbled to his feet, amphibian in hand. His steps were small and slow, but it would be fine. Greg would be fine. As long as they got to the wall and climbed over, Greg would be fine.

Wirt placed the cone hat atop his head and stood up himself. The touch of Beatrice’s hand on his sent a minor bolt of electricity up his spine. Their fingers intertwined together, and they walked, with Greg a few paces in front of them.

* * *

“Wirt?”

“Yes, Beatrice?”

“Will you recite some poetry?”

“Why?”

“It’s too quiet. It just makes this walking all the more dreadful.”

“Do you want to hear something original, or another poet’s?”

“I don’t care, as long as it’s your voice.”

Wirt was too drained to think of a new poem on the spot. He mulled over what poem to recite, but the only lines coming to his mind were from a song, not a poem. It was a song his mother used to sing to calm him before he went to sleep, long before she ever met John. He disliked singing, but the words were pretty enough to be spoken aloud. He cleared his throat and recited the last verse:

_Deep in December, it’s nice to remember,_  
_although you know the snow will follow._  
 _Deep in December, it’s nice to remember,_  
 _without a hurt, the heart is hollow._  
 _Deep in December, it's nice to remember_  
 _the fire of September that made us mellow._  
 _Deep in December, our hearts should remember_  
 _and follow._

“I know that one,” Greg called from over his shoulder, but he never finished his thought.

“It’s November,” Beatrice whispered. There was no point in bantering with her. Wirt clutched Beatrice’s hand and kissed her temple.

Some time later, the trees stopped, and a meadow welcomed them.

And a wall.

* * *

They stood at the halfway point between the Garden Wall and the edge of the woods. Beatrice’s back faced the trees, while Wirt and Greg’s were to the wall. Greg held her left hand; Wirt grasped her right. She smiled feebly at them, prolonging the gentle moment shared between the three of them, even though it was not for the best. She ignored what would happen in the next few minutes. She wanted, _needed_ , to savor these last few minutes with the two brothers who had truly changed her life.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for everything.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Wirt replied. “If it wasn’t for you, then I…well, then we…” his eyes traveled down to Greg, who remained blissfully unaware of what Wirt meant. “Well, you know.”

Beatrice nodded in agreement.

“And, I-I’m sorry for trying to keep you captive, in the beginning.”

“Well, thanks for that, too,” she laughed softly.

Wirt released her hand and rummaged through his pockets. He retrieved two objects. One was the scissors. The other was something thin and red. The yarn from the first night, most of it cut away and lost, save for the few inches of strand Wirt held in his hand now. “Um…maybe you can keep this. As a reminder.”

Beatrice giggled as she accepted the string. She tied it around her wrist. “Oh, you wonderful mistake of nature,” she quipped, but she delivered the jest with affection. She secured the scissors from him as well.

Greg bent down to hand her a leaf. “I want you to remember me with _this_!” he exclaimed proudly, even if his voice did not match his spirit.

Beatrice took the leaf from the boy. “Thanks, Greg,” she replied, leaning down to wrap her arms around him and hug him as tight as she could.

“Can’t—breathe—”

Beatrice removed her arms and rolled her eyes at Greg’s exaggeration. She knocked on his tea kettle hat as a final gesture. She turned her attention back to Wirt, shorter than her by an inch or two. One day, he would tower over her. They exchanged longing glances and somber smiles. The fluttery, wiggling sensation in Beatrice’s chest and stomach pressured her to stop the sentimentality and let them climb over the wall. But she craved just a few extra minutes to stare into Wirt’s carnelian eyes and see him in his ridiculous gnome or wizard get-up.

“Greg, wait for me at the wall,” Wirt directed to his brother. “I need a moment alone with Beatrice.”

“Okie-dokie, brother o’ mine.” Greg waved to her. “Bye-bye, Beatrice.”

“Goodbye, Greg,” she returned. “Keep your brother out of trouble. And take care of Jason Funderberker.”

Greg grinned and nodded, then marched to the wall.  Beatrice waited for Greg to be out of earshot before speaking. “I hope you get back safely,” she mustered up.

“Yeah, well, cursed talking bluebirds don’t exist on my side.”

The joke warmed up Beatrice’s insides, but they cooled once she remembered just what was happening. The silence developed between them again, but it was a comforting kind of quiet, one she rarely experienced with anyone else.

“I hope you reunite with your family,” Wirt added.

“Thanks. I will.” She opened Sara’s jacket and peeled it off of her. “Give this to Sara when you see her, and tell her I say thank you for lending it to me. If it wasn’t for that, I might’ve developed pneumonia during the nights.”

Wirt balled the jacket it his hands and bit his lower lip. He struggled with ceasing this moment, too.

“I’ll come back.”

Beatrice sighed. “Don’t say that.”

“I will,” Wirt insisted. “I promise that one day, I’ll come back.”

“No. Don’t promise me that.”

Wirt furled his brow at her. “Then what can I promise you? You won’t be able to hear my clarinet, or see my world like our deal said you would.”

Beatrice kissed his forehead. “Promise me you will stay with Greg. No matter what, look after him.”

Wirt hesitated before conceding. “Okay.”

“And, should you meet someone else—”

“Beatrice—”

“Hear me out,” she grumbled. This needed to be said. “Should you meet someone else later on, don’t hold back because of me. I want you, and Greg, to be happy. Promise me that.”

Wirt’s glared indignantly at her, but he surrendered with a sigh. “Okay, as long as you promise me the same for yourself.”

She nodded. “I promise.”

They stood together in the meadow, basking in this last, poignant moment between them. Beatrice dammed back the tears, wishing she had a witticism to share as a last remark. But now was not the time for mockery and jokes. Greg and (by extension) Wirt did not belong here. And now she needed to face that fact.

Beatrice embraced him and leaned in for one final, bittersweet kiss as a closing memory. Not long, but not short either. Closed-lipped and chaste, but burdened with the task of being their last.

“Goodbye, Wirt.”

“Goodbye, Beatrice.”

He turned away and strode to meet Greg at the base of the Garden Wall and begin their ascension.  Even in his weak state, Greg scurried up the wall as though he were a squirrel. He stood at the top and waved as enthusiastically as he could to Beatrice before hopping onto a tree and descending below the wall.

Wirt took longer to make it to the top, but when he did, he sat with his legs dangling on her side. They stared at each other for several tense seconds. Any moment, he would swing his legs over and be gone forever. But he sat still. Even from several yards away, she could feel the fixation of his gaze.

_Go home._

Except Wirt would stay there for as long as she stayed in the meadow.

She held up her hand for a small wave, and scrambled back to the woods.

Beatrice suppressed her hot, salty tears. It was best for her to forget about them. Forget about Greg’s optimism and unprejudiced outlook. Forget about the fluttering in her chest and stomach whenever Wirt touched her. Forget that she never gave them an object to remember her by. Forget the adventures, the near-misses, the riskiness, the danger, the anger, the joy, the most fascinating two weeks of her life. Forget them completely.

As the shadow of the trees enveloped her, she looked over her shoulder. Wirt was gone.

And she had a family of bluebirds to find.

* * *

Over the Garden Wall and in the Eternal Garden Cemetery, a sea of black greeted Wirt and Greg.

Greg, despite his weakened state, was the first to come in contact with the ground on their side of the wall. Once his feet were planted firmly against the earthen surface, he sat at the base of the tree that had led the two brothers on their adventure two weeks prior. Wirt hopped from his position on the tree to beside his younger brother. With the afternoon sun hanging in a cloudless sky, today could be confused for a mild summer’s day, save for the barren trees and litter of brittle foliage. Not a single inch of snow blanketed the ground. Wirt grasped his brother’s hand and helped the boy to his feet. “C’mon Greg. We’re not there yet. Then you can sleep all you want.”

“Okay,” Greg sighed. Jason Funderberker the Frog released a groveling croak when Greg squeezed the frog close to his chest.

It was not even ten steps from the tree when the black mass entered into Wirt’s view. Caught in his tracks, Wirt stared at the scene. A group of people congregated around a casket, with flowers and sullen faces.

Wirt froze. He and Greg could not sneak past the mourners; someone was bound to see them, and what would happen then? He identified none of them, but most of their backs were turned towards him and Greg. But what else could he do? Retreat back to the wall and wait for the funeral to end? That could take forever.

What was this fear rising within him? He was back on his side of the wall, and Greg was safe. He had said a most-likely permanent goodbye to Beatrice to ensure Greg’s safety, and now they were back—the first to have returned from crossing the Garden Wall. Was that it? The uncertainty of the consequences he was bound to face? Wirt stopped the Beast, and yet he was he afraid of a few paces?

Swallowing those qualms for Greg’s sake, Wirt ambled forward on jellied legs.

“Wirt?”

Not even twenty steps.

Wirt searched for whoever called his name; it was a female’s voice, and one he recognized. He entertained the idea of it maybe being Beatrice, who would have climbed the wall to give him one last kiss before returning to her side, but he quickly erased the thought out of his mind. His last picture of Beatrice was the redheaded girl sprinting away from the wall and into the dense trees.

“Wirt?” the girl repeated again, and Wirt immediately locked eyes with her.

“Sara…” he breathed. He stepped closer to her. “I…I have your jacket.”

Sara reached for her jacket, but she remained pivoted to her spot. Another girl saddled herself next to Sara, and it took Wirt a second to realize who she was. Blonde and short—shorter than Wirt—and robed in black, it was Kathleen, his lab partner during freshman year Biology, and one of Sara’s friends. “Oh...my God. Oh my God!” she shrieked. Everyone else in crowd now stared at him and Greg, with whispers floating about.

A middle-aged woman, presumably Kathleen’s mother from the matching blonde hair, approached the boys. This must have been a funeral for Kathleen’s grandfather; Wirt remembered from Biology class how Kathleen talked about her grandfather’s struggle with Alzhiemer’s. “You’re the two boys who have been missing for two weeks, aren’t you?” Kathleen’s mother asked. She never hesitated for a response. “Where have the two of you been?” The words were of a scolding parent, but her tone was more distressed and appalled—a _concerned_ parent.

“We were over the wall,” Greg rasped, still so eager but hindered by frail physicality. This elicited widened eyes and more flurried whispers.

“For two weeks?” an elderly gentleman called somewhere in the back of the crowd.

“Um, yeah,” Wirt said. No point in refuting it.

The next several hours passed so rapidly for Wirt that he only recollected hazy pockets and certain scenes. He did not remember the drive to the house (or who offered it), but he recalled his mother opening the door and embracing him and Greg as she sobbed. He overheard his stepfather making calls to extended family members and friends. A telephone conversation between him and his biological father happened, but what were the exact words exchanged? There were hugs, and sobs, and words like “ran away,” yet they all jumbled together into one monotonous buzz and blur in Wirt’s ears and eyes. There was the faint image of a person in a blue uniform and a badge. He smelled the spaghetti bolognaise his mother prepared, and he knew he ate it, but only after he saw a large red stain on his shirt.

If anything, awareness of time never returned to Wirt until he was back in his bed, underneath the covers and staring up at the ceiling. His alarm clock read eleven-forty-eight p.m., and, for the first time since Halloween, his hair felt clean. Wirt turned on the bedside lamp and climbed out his bed. He tiptoed into the hallway and cautiously twisted the doorknob leading into Greg’s room. Wirt peeked his head over the threshold to see the dark lump of Greg passed out on his own bed. His nerves eased. Greg was safe. Greg would recover in no time at all. Wirt vowed to uphold his duty as older brother because he loved the little rascal. He always had. It just took a dangerous woodland voyage to prove it.

With a gentle smile, he closed Greg’s door. Before stepping back into his own room, though, Wirt stayed in place—just for a few seconds—to eavesdrop on the murmurs behind his mother and stepfather’s door.

“I just don’t understand—”

“I know—”

“And how did they survive?”

“Wirt probably read up about basic wilderness survival. He’s always reading different things. And didn’t he do Boy Scouts for a while?”

“But _why_ , John? Why did he go in the first place? Why did he take Greg with him?”

Alone in the darkness, Wirt listened. Although he could not remember what his responses were when they interrogated him earlier, he suspected that he provided little information, if anything. A part of himself wanted to burst into their room and confess everything without sparing a single detail, but logic held him back. They would think he was delusional after two weeks of being in the woods, and as a child known for his overactive imagination, Greg would not be the most reliable witness.

An uncomfortable pause followed his mother’s inquiries. He was about to find sanctuary in his room when he heard her speak once again.

“Why did they come back?”

Back in his bed with the lamp turned off, Wirt pondered over what his life would be like now. He imagined being at school, no longer overlooked, but now the center of unwanted and hushed attention. People would gawk, and point, and ask tactless questions. They would wonder what it was like on the other side of the wall, and he would lie. He and Greg would lean on each other for support and understanding because no one else would ever comprehend those two weeks. No one would believe them. Except Sara. Sara would understand.

With a bleak future ahead of him, Wirt changed his course of thinking. Two weeks ago, he was a reclusive suburban boy with a crush on a girl, taking his brother trick-or-treating. He had not known it then, but his life changed that evening. What if Greg chose a different route for trick-or-treating? Would the two of them have crossed the Garden Wall and experience the same adventures? What if Greg counted the candy stash in his pants when the returned to the house? What if Wirt simply chose to not climb the wall at all, and gave Sara the mixtape? Would he still harbor his old feelings for her? There were too many “what ifs” for him to consider, and he could not rewind time and change the past.

Nor would he want to. The Unknown, as he so liked to call the world that lied across, over, and yonder the Garden Wall, was dangerous and lethal. He and Greg escaped death a handful of times. But if given the opportunity, he would never trade the risky two weeks he spent amongst anthropomorphic animals, colorful townsfolk, witches, evil spirits, and the shadowy Beast.

And Beatrice.

She was a bluebird who swore at him, argued with him, teased him, irritated him, deceived him, kept many secrets from him. But she was also a cursed human with a burden to bear, who laughed with him, listened to him, confided in him, danced with him, befriended him, helped him, and captivated him. He closed his eyes and pictured her as a human, with her ginger hair, her slew of freckles, and vibrant blue doe eyes.

No, he would never pass up the opportunity to have known Beatrice.

_(And yet, somehow we found each other  
like strangers, you and I.)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although a two-part epilogue will be uploaded shortly, this is the final, full chapter of AOaY.
> 
> Not exactly poetry credits, but...["Try to Remember"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wpKXC8NnP_E) from _The Fantasticks_ is, by far, one of my favorite songs in musical theatre. Also, "Like Ships" from OTGW makes an appearance (man so what if it's actually a duet between Wirt and Lorna this is fanfiction I do what I want)


	20. Epilogue: Beatrice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She had never dreamed of what it would feel like to love someone so much; of all the things that had astonished her in her adventures, that was what astonished her the most. She thought the tenderness it left in her heart was like a bruise that would never go away, but she would cherish it forever.
> 
> from _The Amber Spyglass_ by Phillip Pullman

“Excuse me, miss?”

Beatrice looked up from the book she borrowed from one of Margueritte’s many libraries. The woman in front of her was the first potential customer since she arrived at the Endicott Brand Tea stall that morning. Beatrice affixed her embroidered bookmark into the crease of her book, and set the volume aside. “Yes? How can I help you today? Is there a particular flavor of tea you would like?”

The woman’s eyes sparkled. Judging from the graying hair and the lines in her face, she was about Margueritte’s age. “Oh, no, I’m sorry, miss. I’m not here to buy tea.”

Beatrice refrained from drawing her eyebrows together and paused to collect herself. “Then, may I ask, why are you here?” she asked in the calmest, politest voice she could muster.

“Oh, I, um…” the woman stalled. Beatrice tapped her foot behind the table and propped her hands on her hips. She hated when customers wasted her time. Beatrice enjoyed working with Margueritte, Endicott, and Fred, and the extra income (and free tea) helped the Fraser household. But Beatrice’s job also meant dealing with an assortment of customers, some of whom were insolent and irritable. At least this woman looked more dithering than downright rude.

“Are…are you the bluebird?”

At this point, Beatrice could not keep back the steam. “What’re you talking about?” she barked.

“The bluebird in the troubadour’s song about the Pilgrim,” the woman answered before reciting the little ditty. “‘The Pilgrim came and went, with a brother and bluebird by his side.’ There’s talk that a girl who works at the markets and knew the Pilgrim, and you are the only ‘girl’ working any of these stalls. Is she you?”

Beatrice crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, I knew Wirt.” She refused to call him the Pilgrim, like many others had.

“Oh, ‘Wirt?’ That was his name?”

“Yes.”

“And what was he like?”

 _Wonderful_. “Indecisive.”

The woman sulked. “Indecisive?”

 _A way with words._ “He didn’t know what he was doing half the time.”

“Oh…but surely—”

“Ma’am, if you’re not going to purchase anything, I suggest you leave.”

“But—”

“Buy something or get out!”

“ _Béatrice!_ ” Margueritte’s scolding tone emanated from behind her. Beatrice plopped in her chair and shrunk behind the tea displays. She overheard Margueritte and the woman’s apologies, but drowned them out as she picked up her book and continued to read.

Once the woman left, Margueritte rested a hand on Beatrice’s shoulder. “She didn’t want to buy anything, and she was wasting my time,” Beatrice piped up before she received a lecture from her employer and friend.

Margueritte sighed. “I am not _too_ upset with you, _Béatrice_. You’ve been working with us for three months now, and this is only the second time you’ve raised your voice to a customer. And you were right, she was not here to purchase tea.” Margueritte sat on one of the nearby stools, the heavy and wide skirt of her dress billowing out in every direction. How she managed to wear it was beyond Beatrice, especially in the early summer’s muggy air and unforgiving sun.

“But,” Marguerite continued, “I think we both know that it was not about a customer who was wasting your time.”

Beatrice slammed her book shut and scowled. “I wish all this Pilgrim nonsense would stop.”

Margueritte remained quiet.

“They don’t _know_ what he’s like,” Beatrice growled, her insides boiling within and rising upwards. “Never mind that they hardly mention Greg.” That was a whole sub-rant of its own. She could live with how the stories and rumors reduced her to an almost nonexistent sidekick, but Greg deserved more. “Those stories make him out to be some classical hero who just decided to cross the wall and stop the Beast. But he’s nothing like that.”

Margueritte nodded. “ _Oui, je sais_.”

“He’s indecisive and he really didn’t know what he was doing most of the time. He’s this pushover who once in a while acts all stubborn and passive-aggressive. He’s wimpy and dorky and would rather spend time in the book vendor’s stall than going out into the woods and conquering some monster. He’s _not_ those stories.”

Beatrice sniffed; the tears had yet to stream out of her eyes, but they were bound to come any moment now. Her front teeth sunk tightly into her lower lip.

“They are merely stories—”

“They’re _wrong_ ,” Beatrice snapped. Margueritte’s concerned face dropped into one of hurt, and Beatrice sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to take it out on you.”

“I know it has been difficult for you,” Margueritte responded. “To be separated from those you love is quite a challenge.”

Beatrice’s spine stiffened from alarm. “I don’t… _love_ Wirt. And Greg.” She thought about them almost every day. She hoped Greg recovered well and doted on Jason Funderberker the Frog. She wondered what books Wirt read and if he still wrote poetry. She liked the nights when the moon was out, and how it was the same moon on their side of the Garden Wall—a reminder that they still shared _something_. She once in a while entertained the thought of them ( _him_ ) stepping over the wall just to visit her. ( _They find each other by chance. He is taller, and she wears her favorite green dress. She slaps him for not keeping his promise, but they kiss, long and sweet, and his hands on her hips keep her steady._ She never contemplated of what would happen after, nor did she want to.) She wished them happiness and goodwill. But she did not _love_ them. “I don’t love Wirt. I knew him for two weeks. I don’t _love_ him.”

“But you _do_ have feelings for him, and they are not fanciful, ephemeral feelings, either.”

Beatrice crossed her arms. “What are you trying to do here?” She hated to sound rude to someone who showed her great compassion, but at this point, she disliked whatever Margueritte was doing.

Margueritte showed no sign of offense, however. “ _Béatrice_ , I would like to see you happy, that’s all.”

“I am happy,” she insisted. “My family and I are humans again. I work for you, and I get to talk with Fred.” She cast her eyes to the book on the table. “And they’re fine. They’re safe and that’s all I need to know. I just don’t like these false stories going around the woods.

Her friend stood up. “You know you are always welcome to speak with me about anything. And, in turn, I would like to make suggestions.”

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “Suggestions?”

“ _Oui._ You are a good worker. You are on time and you try your best. _Mais_ , you ought to find other friends besides my batty husband, our talking horse, and myself. Take your mind off of these responsibilities and spend time with others who are not your employers or your family.”

Beatrice grimaced. She could tell Margueritte meant to say _memories_ instead of _responsibilities_. “You sound like my mother.”

“I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your mother. She’s a smart, delightful woman.”

That was true. Jane Fraser was a wonderful woman, despite her nitpicking demeanor. “I suppose I can spend time with Lorna more often,” Beatrice thought aloud. Lorna, free of the flesh-eater, visited the markets once a week, and always stopped at the Endicott Brand Tea stall to chat with Beatrice. The first visit was aggravating—Lorna kept asking about Wirt and “ _whatever happened to him?”_ She must have picked up on Beatrice’s terse responses and daggered glances because Lorna never asked about him or Greg ever again. Lorna was the closest person to a friend Beatrice _had_ , asides from her family and Apollo the Family Dog, Quincy Endicott, Margueritte, and Fred the Horse.

Margueritte grinned. “ _Voila_. Now, how about you and I close the stall for the day?”

“But it’s not even noon.”

“Oh, it’s such a sluggish day, and we’ll be open tomorrow.”

Beatrice gathered herself to her feet with a smile on her face, and placed her sun hat atop her head.  

* * *

“Why are we going this way?” Beatrice asked as she peeked out the carriage window. Her home was in the opposite direction.

“I thought we could spend the afternoon at the woodland lake. It ought to be much cooler on the banks than sitting in the stuffy stall.”

“But the woodland lake is close to the Garden Wall,” Beatrice murmured.

“Yes, but…” Margueritte’s voice trailed off. “Oh, _je suis desolée._ I hadn’t even considered that. Would you like Fred to turn us back?”

Beatrice sat back and shook her head. “No, it’s fine. I haven’t been to the lake for a while.”

They carried on for nearly two hours, Fred’s pace abnormally fast for a standard horse (but Fred was never “standard”). Margueritte and Beatrice chatted about small topics, like marketplace economics and politics. Beatrice caught herself staring out the carriage window on more than one occasion, much like at the picture window in her family’s living room. Somehow, she recognized the path well, despite not seeing it for months.

And up ahead, she saw what looked like a clearing.

“Stop the carriage,” she muttered, almost without hesitation.

“ _Pardon_?”

“Tell Fred to stop! He can’t go any farther.”

Margueritte frowned, but signaled Fred to halt. The carriage stopped, and Beatrice clambered to open the door and step out, not a second to lose.

Rushing to the fringe of the woods, Beatrice’s hat flew off her head. From the rapid movement, locks of her hair loosened and escaped the ribbon holding her bun together. The humid air fought against her, but Beatrice powered forwards, and forwards, and forwards, until the trees stopped and met a grassy meadow littered with weeds. In the distance, the Garden Wall stood in its ugliness, a tangible and brutal reminder of the agony she suffered in her heart.

Beatrice stood within the line of trees, the canopy’s shade protecting her from the sweltering sun. The shadow did little by way of the humidity present in the air, but in all honesty, Beatrice cared nothing for the weather, or the sweat forming on the back of her neck, or the imposing stickiness. Her eyes glowered at the wall as if it were a person who could glare back at her.

“I love you!” she cried at the top of her lungs. The thrill of the confession, both to a faraway Wirt (and Greg) and to herself, gave Beatrice an open-mouthed smile, wide and unwavering. Sparks ignited every cell in her body, and she shivered despite the midsummer afternoon sun and humidity. “I love you and I don’t know if I’ll ever stop loving you, but I do! I love you!” Her throat hoarsened and she gulped in hopes her saliva would soothe the scratchiness. “ _I love you, Wirt_ ,” she called out once more, this time accompanied with salty droplets from her cheeks. She loved him so dearly, so passionately, so embarrassingly. She loved him so much that she went out of her way to run and tell him that, knowing he would not hear her. Who cared if she only spent two weeks with him? They felt like _two years_. She spent months trying to convince herself she was not _in love_ with Wirt, the feelings she possessed for him were not so fervent, and they would dissipate into bittersweet memories as time passed on. She never paid attention to the saying “love makes the heart grow fonder.” She had hoped it was wrong, and maybe it was wrong for other people. But it suited her. She once told Wirt she would stop lying to herself about her feelings for him, but she continued to deny herself the blossoming inside her, the fire and brimstone of heartache and happiness until it busted at the seams.

Beatrice loved him.

Later, she would feel Margueritte’s arms around her, both a comfort and a sign it was time to leave. She would be taken home, where she would put on a face and pretend she never confessed her love—not her feelings, but her _love_ —to someone who would never hear her. At night, she would lay in bed, lost in the sea of her thoughts and streams of tears, wishing Wirt could touch her face once more and tell her that _he_ loved _her_.

And later, Beatrice would go about her days with him and his brother always on her mind, even if the memories of them were tucked in the farthest corners of her mind. She would wonder if she could love someone else in a few years’ time—not in the same manner as she loved Wirt, but love this person for who he was and how he made her feel, even if she never stopped loving Wirt. She would actively try to be kinder and less blunt to those around her, to occupy herself with hobbies and friendships and family—all to not remind herself of the boy who no longer held her cursed body captive, but rather her heart.

Now, however, she stood tall and proud, albeit slightly broken and vulnerable, with one thought and three words repeating themselves in her mind so she could never forget them.

_I love you._


	21. Epilogue: Wirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere or other, may be far or near;  
> with just a wall, a hedge, between;  
> with just the last leaves of the dying year  
> fallen on a turf grown green.
> 
> \- "Somewhere or Other" by Christina Rosetti

Wirt opened the front door and stepped into the sweet, refreshing air-conditioned interior. He sighed as he closed the front door, and left the August heat behind him. Ready to collapse on the floor, he moved further into the house. The television blared in the background, and before Wirt could set his clarinet case on the dining table, the pitter-patter of feet rushed towards him.

“Wirt! You’re home!” Greg cheered, his little arms encircling Wirt’s legs.

Wirt smiled and patted his brother’s head. “Yeah, I’m finally home,” he breathed, convinced he was suffering from heat exhaustion. “So what did you and Sara do today?”

“I took him to the state park for a while,” Sara’s voice echoed. She appeared from the living room’s entryway. “And then I made him grilled cheese for lunch, and we’ve been watching cartoons ever since.”

Greg broke his embrace and nodded. “Jason Funderberker wanted to visit his frog family in the park, but we didn’t see any. He made a lizard friend, though! But I didn’t bring Lenny home because he said he liked living in the park.”

Wirt made his way into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of ice water. “Do you guys want anything to drink?”

“No thanks,” Sara replied.

“Can I have some soda?” Greg asked.

“Did Sara give you soda earlier today?”

“No.”

“I didn’t,” Sara affirmed.

“Then yes, I can pour you some soda.” Wirt poured a glass of cola for Greg and handed it to him. “You know how Mom feels about you drinking more than one soda a day.”

Greg nodded and sipped. “Thanks, Wirt! Will you watch some TV with me and Jason Funderberker?”

“In a few minutes. I want to take a shower; I’m disgusting.”

“Okay then, brother o’ mine. You know where to find me and our frog friend.” Greg returned to the sofa in the living room. Wirt sat at the dining table and finished off the ice water, relishing the coolness.

Sara sat across from him, a wide grin on her face. “So how’s band camp going?”

Wirt sighed. “ _Tiresome_. Standing in the shade is pointless. But everyone seems nice. There’s no Jason Funderberker. The person, not our frog.”

“Just think, marching band will be your life for the first few months of school until mid-November. You won’t be holed up in your room forever now. You’ll have a _social_ life!”

Wirt chuckled. “Yeah. Actually, um, I got invited to a party once band camp is over.”

Sara’s eyebrows waggled. “Oooh, is this an age-inappropriate party where booze is served?”

“Maybe. It’s at Tom Keely’s house. He’s one of the percussionists.”

“Ah, Tom Keely’s house. Yeah, it’s definitely a booze party. Do you think you’ll go?”

Wirt shrugged. “Maybe? I won’t have anything better to do.”

“Look at you,” Sara teased. “Not only does Wirt join the marching band, but he starts going to _house parties_. Sixteen years old, and you’re a real man now!”

“I went to that Halloween party last year,” Wirt corrected, but he shrank away once the memory of what happened _after_ played in his mind. He avoided Sara’s gaze and scratched his head.

“Oh, right,” Sara murmured. Cartoons from the television prevented total silence from taking over. “You know, Wirt…we’re friends. You can talk to me about anything. Even about… _then_.”

“My parents _pay_ someone to talk to me,” Wirt snapped, but remorse washed over him as soon as the words left his mouth. “I-I’m sorry Sara. It’s just…frustrating. You’d think after almost a year, everything would be okay, but my mom and John, they think I should…well, I don’t like being _expected_ to talk.”

Sara nodded, an understanding in her eyes. “I know. I don’t expect you to talk. I am available, though, just in case you ever _want_ to talk.”

“Thanks,” Wirt accepted. “I…I wouldn’t mind talking about it now.” ( _I want to talk about her_.) Though he thought about it, and _her_ , often, he hardly spoke to anyone about it.

Sara smiled again. “Okay. Go ahead.”

Wirt checked his wristwatch, an idea forming in his mind. Two hours remained until his mother and John returned from work. That was _plenty_ of time to head out and come back before they did. “Not here. I don’t want to talk about it here.”

* * *

Once in a while, Wirt visited the cemetery and sat against the tree that had helped him cross over the Garden Wall. He never brought Greg with him. He never explained to Greg the complexities of visitation, and thus it was better if Greg never came with him. One sight of the wall, and Greg would want to climb over again to visit the trees, the magic, the colorful characters whom they had befriended. He would want to visit _her_.

It was also a bad idea that Wirt came to the cemetery alone without anyone’s knowledge. He hated being dishonest with his mother and John, especially after the return and the winter, but he knew that they would not want him hanging around the Garden Wall that he had disappeared over. He usually said that he was at a friend’s house, or spending some time in the library catching up on some homework and independent research. These were not lies; he often did go to these places so that he was telling the truth when his parents asked him where he had been. It gave him an alibi. He just chose not to mention the Garden Wall or the cemetery. _Lie by telling the truth_.

Today, though, he brought Sara and Greg along. As anticipated, Greg whizzed for the tree, but Wirt stopped him. “No. No climbing for you.”

“But _Wiiiiirt_ …”

“No.” Wirt and Sara sat at one of the stone benches drenched in shade. “And don’t wander too far. We have to be back before Mom and John get home.”

Greg groaned, but obliged. He plopped himself onto the grass with Jason Funderberker the Frog and picked at a few bright yellow dandelions, humming to himself.  

The Eternal Garden Cemetery was almost the same in the summer as it was in the fall. The same tombstones, maybe a different cycle of flowers placed at graves. The same tree, but with thick, waxy green leaves. This white stone bench was as close he dared to be to the Garden Wall. He feared of what would happen if he climbed the tree so he could sit at the top of the wall, just sit and look at what he missed. He had a promise to uphold, and if he was going to be anywhere near the wall, then he was safest at the bottom.

Wirt closed his eyes and let his mind travel back to those two weeks. The days passing without a change of clothes, the nights underneath the canopies and stars, the skimpy meals of wild fruit and nut. The witch named Adelaide, the musical tavern, the week spent at Grey-Endicott estate and the minor expenditures, Lorna and her guardian Auntie Whispers, the Beast. The thrilling adventures, the looming fear that he and Greg would never make it back.  No one except Greg knew the full truth. Over the months, he dropped a few hints to Sara, but refrained from major details.

He changed that as he spoke of what happened. Every single facet, beginning with how he and Greg met a talking bluebird that first evening.

A talking bluebird.

 _“Ah, you found me!”_ Beatrice’s voice recited in Wirt’s memory. _“My wings are stuck on these thorns.”_

The sixteen-year-old boy smiled a soft, melancholic grin at the thought of their first meeting with Beatrice. She was always on his mind— _always_. Next to the week he spent at the Endicott-Grey estate, Beatrice was his fondest memory, both as a bluebird and as a human. She was probably seventeen now, but in his mind, she looked the same. He certainly did not. In the months since the return, Wirt skyrocketed to six feet even, but his thin physique exaggerated his height. If they saw each other again, would she recognize him?

Had she reunited with her family? Was her homecoming better and less strained than the one Wirt received?

_“It’s…it’s okay. It’s…nice.”_

_“How is it_ nice _?”_

 _“Well, probably because, b-because_ Ifeelthesamewayaboutyoutoo.”

_“What? W-what was that?”_

_“Please don’t make me say it again.”_

Admittedly, that was not how he imagined his first kiss would have occurred.

It was better.

Wirt’s stomach fluttered at the thought of that night—the one, blissful night where everything was more than okay. He and Beatrice together, cuddled together as they watched Greg sleeping, their own bodies exhausted but their adrenaline keeping them awake. He missed kissing Beatrice. He missed his body next to hers, her messy hair tumbling over his shoulders and her leg thrown over.  It was such an amazing night; the only one that could rival it was the last night with Endicott and Marguerrite, when they were dancing and his anxieties were washed away. But the last night, their not-meant-to-be-last-night, was the best night. At least they had that night together.

He explained all of this to Sara, too. “I always wondered about her,” Sara admitted when he finished. “That night when I met her and saw you, there was something about the two of you. You kinda acted that way around me, but with her it was more…more…well, it was just _more_.”

Wirt’s blood chilled. “You…you _knew_ about that? My crush on you?”

Sara giggled. “I sort of guessed it, but I doubted myself at times. I thought you were like that with everyone. You are, sometimes.”

Wirt frowned, but pushed aside the oddness inside of him. “You believe me, though…right? You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“Not at all. You’re not the type of person to make stuff up, Wirt. That’s your brother’s job. I can’t picture it, but it _sounds_ real. Coming from you, at least. And I met Beatrice.” She paused and patted his back. “Do you love her?”

Wirt jerked up. “L-love? Uh…um, I…”

What he felt for Beatrice was a disease that ate his insides and gave him fevers. It was a soaring, manic, arousing high that made him too self-aware of the stone underneath his hands, the smell of grass and honeysuckles, the goosebumps on his arms and the back of his neck, his own rhythmic breathing. He thought of her all the time and wrote poetry about her often. Whatever he felt was painful to let go of. But _love_?

“I don’t know,” he surrendered.

“I think you do,” Sara proposed. “So what if you knew her for two weeks? My grandparents knew they were meant to be together after five weeks of going steady, and they’ve been married for over fifty years now.”

Wirt’s mother and father dated for four years, and their marriage lasted for another five until they divorced. He kept that to himself.

“Do you wanna climb the wall? Just to see that side one more time?”

Wirt shook his head, but he peeked at the top of the wall.

Maybe just one peek would not hurt?

“Stay where you are, Greg.”

Within minutes, Wirt once again sat at the top of the flat top of the wall, his legs over the edge. The first time since he returned and a crashed a funeral. Sara affixed herself next to him.

And there it was. The meadow, the trees.

They pleaded to him. _Come back to us, Pilgrim._

Wirt fought every urge begging him to clamber down the other side. Sara gripped onto his arm as a reminder. Of course he wanted to climb down to the other side and run through meadow and into the trees. He imagined himself frantically calling for Beatrice as soon as he was amidst the trees, saying her name over and over again until they would eventually meet each other one more time. He imagined her first upset that he was not with Greg, but then she kissed him—a kiss long awaited, one mirroring their last, but more forceful and eager. And then Beatrice would make a remark about his height before he would recite some original poetry of his ( _What was once lost is renewed and free,/my spirit returns to me/with one radiant spark_ / _that illuminates the lonely dark)._ Another witticism from Beatrice about him being a nerd before they kissed once more. Hand in hand, they walked off towards her family’s home, and they would forget the past months so they could start afresh.

Wirt peered over his shoulder to gaze upon the little boy playing with dandelions and a frog.

If there was one thing that surpassed his…love for Beatrice, it was his love for Greg.

And Beatrice wanted him to stay with Greg.

“Are you doing okay?” Sara inquired.

“Yes,” he lied.

They remained seated at the top of the Garden Wall for several minutes longer, quiet and pensive. In five minutes, they would climb back down, and exit the gates. Then they would take Greg to get some ice cream and pretend the entire trip never happened.

During those five minutes, Wirt shoved aside his imaginary reunion with Beatrice to merely look upon the Unknown.

And he swore he saw a human figure dressed in a light green zipping amongst the outer trees.

But he could not be too certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, everyone!


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